


Depthless

by Captain_Panda



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anxiety, Drowning, Friendship, Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Paranoia, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Sick Tony Stark, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25786723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Panda/pseuds/Captain_Panda
Summary: "Depthless: (1) unfathomably deep; (2) shallow and superficial."Weeks after defrosting Captain America, S.H.I.E.L.D. finds Steve Rogers lying at the bottom of a pool. Assumptions are made. They have no idea what they are dealing with.Meanwhile, Tony Stark, the man-in-the-spotlight, has demons lurking off-radar that are literally filling his lungs with water.Ignoring either problem was never an option. This is the story of Steve Rogers and Tony Stark's collision course.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 40
Kudos: 170





	Depthless

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote 22k in a day. 
> 
> I came within inches of publishing this fic in its entirety last night, but as one can imagine, there my eyes faltered, and I decided to finish this fic this morning. In sum, this fic was written over the course of two days, but the vast majority was brought to life in one explosive writing session. That should give you some hint of its nature.
> 
> Here there be heavy themes. Explicitly mentioned remarks are all tagged (e.g. drowning and past torture), implicitly mentioned remarks fall under the umbrella term "heavy themes." This includes suicide ideation, war trauma (which, arguably, falls under the "PTSD" blanket), and implied panic attacks.
> 
> I've wanted to write a PTSD fic for a while, and I'm proud of the end result. This is probably not the fic you are expecting it to be, but I do hope you have a terrific time with it. As always, your support is my bread-and-butter, I respond to every comment (even if it is "in due time"; I do apologize for the delays lately!), and I thank you for your time.
> 
> Yours affectionately,  
> Cap'n Panda

_Ma. I made it. I made it_.

Floating near the bottom of the pool, he could hear his mother’s voice in the white noise: _You always did, my heart. You never had anywhere you needed to go._

 _I made it to the future, Ma. You wouldn’t believe it here_.

An alien burst in the water, and Steve Rogers almost killed it with a single kick to the chest. Then he recognized the diver in full suit, holding up an _OK_ sign. They shook their hand back-and-forth, punching out the symbols. Steve tilted his head and mirrored the gesture. The alien floated away, paddling its flippers behind it, bubbles streaming from its gills. Not gills—tanks.

 _They’re coming for me_. He glided semi-upright, looking at the alien shadows high above. The pool was almost thirty feet deep. They used it to test out weightless simulations. S.H.I.E.L.D. was not just for Earthly warfare.

The alien returned. This time, it pointed at its wrist, emphatically. Steve returned the gesture with less heat, but the alien bubbled out a breath, gave up on conversation, and reached towards him.

Steve clamped onto its wrist, holding it in place. The alien began to thrash. 

Stung not by injury but remorse, Steve let go. At once, the alien paddled away, frantic in its movements. Steve resisted the childish impulse to grasp one of its flippers and hold it down.

Finally, a full minute after the alien had disappeared, the burn in his lungs began. Standing, actually balancing on his feet on the bottom of the pool—such was his muscle-to-fat ratio that he sank, rather than floated, unless he tried to—he resisted the urge to draw in a fortifying breath as the burn became a blaze.

He kicked off, and in one powerful stroke, shot to the surface, breaching in less than two seconds.

“Fuck, he’s up,” shouted warbled voices. “He’s up.”

Breathing deeply but not unsteadily, Steve paddled to the edge of the pool and hoisted himself out. They gave him a wide berth, not least because he scattered buckets of water across the floor. _Sorry_ , he thought, beyond speech as he grabbed a single white towel and dabbed the worst off his face, his chest, his legs.

“Cap, you can’t,” began a formal-looking fella, gaze straying ominously to Steve’s musculature and lingering. There was no swooning admiration there. Only distinct unease, like someone caught out with an animal too strong to overpower. _Shit. I need a gun_. Steve strung the towel over a shoulder, offered a hand, and the guy-in-charge took it. He didn’t even try to squeeze hard, pulling away as soon as he could. “This area is restricted. Scientific testing,” he informed Steve brusquely, voice as cold as he could make it and still—shaking. At the edge.

Bone-cold terrified. Steve said calmly, “My card worked. I thought it was just another pool.”

“Sorry,” the stiff-backed gentleman informed. “It’s not.” Swallowing, he added, “I’d ask that you speak with Fury, if our recreational facilities are insufficient—”

“No,” Steve cut in. “They’re all right. What’s going on here?”

The gentleman said, almost pained but mostly afraid: “That’s classified.”

Steve smiled with more teeth than he intended. “Well,” he allowed, “you folks keep up—whatever it is you’re doing. I’ll be out of your hair.”

. o .

_I can hear you_.

 _Of course you can_. His mother’s voice was so clear, down here. Memory, without noise. _I’m always here. Right with you._

_They’d heal you, you know. They have ways. They healed me._

_No, my heart. They can’t fix the dead_.

He nearly drew breath, blinking at the water around him. The pool was only fifteen feet at the deepest, and one limp kick took him right to the surface. And all the noise, noise, noise of the world. He looked at his watch; it worked underwater. _Two minutes_ , he thought, bellying back down and moseying around the empty, empty pool. _It’s so quiet down here._

It was the only place in the world that was truly quiet. His lungs did not even begin to burn until the five-minute mark. Then it was a choice. Before then, he was unaware that he was underwater, except he did not need to draw breath anymore.

 _They talk about fixing the dead_. He swam in circles. The pool was long enough for laps, but he ducked underneath the neat lines set up on the surface, where trainers would gasp and gasp and gasp, resisting their every instinct to be down here, for even seconds at a time. _They say I am the precedent. My blood may hold the key to resurrection._

 _Don’t let them take it_. He paused, floating, dove a little deeper, nearly bellying over the very bottom of the pool. Safe. _It’s your blood. It’s your life. If you give it up, you’ll be dead. Where is the resurrection there?_

 _Nowhere_. He floated on his back. His lungs burned. _They want it so much. To unbury graves._

_Don’t let them. Don’t let them._

_I won’t ever. They will not defile graves with my blood_.

He stayed down for nearly eight minutes, resurfacing and coughing until his lungs were sore from it. Too long. Needed a better starting point, more oxygen, less stale air. He’d get there. He’d get there.

 _They can’t have it_.

. o .

_They don’t trust me, alone_. He felt watched with every meter he drifted, even when there were no people in the room. He knew about the cameras.

Drifting was unsettling to watch, so he swam instead. He even tried to swim like the others, breaching and sucking down a breath, but he found out that it ruined the whole cycle and he ended up running out of air very quickly, coughing and coughing until he gave up on the whole enterprise.

He was far too dangerous for them to get close to, but they still wanted to talk to him, loved to talk to him like he was a fool, sitting him down in a room and talking and talking and talking until his ears ached. And he would sum up his feelings in two sentences: “You seem to have something in mind. What do you need from me?” All the prefacing in the world could not disguise that they wanted something from him. They always brightened at his cooperation. Someday, he hoped they might even skip the briefing—there was hardly ever a conversation, simply a _yes for cooperation, and no for incarceration_.

So he went under water to find peace. There, it was silent; there, they were terrified to follow.

 _This is the only place I am still a free man_. Lying on the bottom of the pool, arms folded behind his head instinctively, he thought grimly: _One day, they’ll come for me here, too_.

And so they did.

. o .

At first, they invited him back to the deeper pool.

It was far from a match-made-in-heaven. While the water was hypnotically deep, he didn’t like the divers, even at a distance, and they most certainly did not like _him_. They checked in every minute, and, if he was unresponsive for even a second, tried to reel him in, only to startle violently at the slightest proof-of-life response. He couldn’t find peace. The most he could do was watch them until his lungs burned, three minutes in, and resurface, and escort himself out. 

He tried not to drip on the floor as much on the way out. They watched him the whole way.

. o .

_Sweet boy_. Lying at the bottom of the main pool, his mother’s voice was the only thing in the world to him. _What have you done?_

 _I served my country. They brought me home. Guess they forgot to put me in the ground._ He shut his eyes. Already, his lungs were aching with the need to draw breath, but there was no burn. _They had the ceremony. Flag-laying. Said all the right words. But they didn’t put me in the ground. They put me on a pedestal._

 _Sweet boy. They need you_.

The ache approached a convulsion. He did not resurface. He knew if he did, he would sob.

 _Stay with me_. His mother’s voice was always what he needed it to be. Memories, overlapping reality. _Don’t grow up too fast._

 _I have to, Ma. The world needs me_.

. o .

He gave them his blood, his sleep, his peace of mind. They could not touch his tears.

At the bottom of the pool, he laid until the burn in his lungs became urgent, and stayed down. He waited, and waited, and then stared at the wristlet watch until the blurry hand became dark. He waited a little longer, determined to outlast all thoughts, and experience true silence.

A convulsive hiccup, a desperate clip of almost-breath, nearly drowned him. He kicked to the surface in one mighty lunge. He gasped noisily at the water’s surface, wretched sounds, and was grateful no one could hear him as he limped to the artificial shore, hanging onto it for a few moments.

His mouth was too dry to consider going back under, so he got out of the water, abandoning peace.

. o .

They never left him alone again.

 _I’m worth more dead than alive_ , he wanted to bargain with them, to remind them that even if the worst came to pass, he was still a valuable specimen. He was maybe even _more_ valuable to them if a tragic accident occurred than if he continued in his present, stoic form. Dead, they could take all the blood they wanted from him—he wouldn’t need it anymore. Dead, they could study all his organs, give them to a donor and try to grow new super-soldiers. Dead, they could do anything they wanted to his body, shave his bones down to powder, grind his hair to ash. Burn him into fodder for the rest of humanity’s goals.

 _It’s what you want. Isn’t it?_ Under the watchful eyes of his new life-preservers, he held his breath and floated listlessly at the surface of the pool, eyes shut but aware of his surroundings, of the illusion of noiselessness where water covered his ears. _I frighten you. I’m a loose cannon_. He rolled over, bellied down, and plunged into the deep.

After exactly one minute, something tapped him in the back—a long pole. He ignored it and whatever idle threat it represented. Moments later, a diver plunged into the water, and this time, they did not resurface after a few seconds of uneasy debate. Instead, they lingered, pointing sternly at the surface, and he—followed.

 _Left, right, left_ , he thought, outmatching the diver in their bulky gear and swimming to the side of the pool, escaping before they could have a conversation, a negotiation. _If you leave me alone, and I drown, you win. If you leave me alone, and I live—well, I suppose you still win_.

There was no winning for him. But at least in his own quarters, lying under the covers, he could pretend they couldn’t see him. In the clear water, he had no illusions that his shadow was invisible.

. o .

He became restless under their eyes, restless without an escape. Testy at meetings. Snappy at commanding officers. Moody about assignments. He began open acts of rebellion—refusing meals and choosing to reschedule events without consulting his life-preservers. That was what they were, in the end—people whose sole occupation, after perhaps decades of serving S.H.I.E.L.D. loyally on other fronts, were to keep Captain America alive and well and well-fed and well-rested. They threw books at him, showed him every amenity his homegrown heart could desire. They offered more of everything. They threatened less, but only in a _if you will not give, we may have to take_ manner. They never tried to raise their voices, although some seemed on the verge of it, at times.

It was difficult to slip away, but he found a place with a pool outside S.H.I.E.L.D., and he stripped off his shirt and plunged into the deep, and nearly fell asleep at the bottom for ten minutes, basking in radiant silent. His head had been noisy for weeks, full of the buzzing of people trying to command his life. He didn’t want to know what media was. He was plenty social. Media—the plural form of _medium_ , like art—was supposed to be singular. Art, in all its forms, was a singular experience.

Drawing was silent. Reading was silent. Even performing was silent—the soul turned inward, projecting a character outward. There was no group nature to any of it, the jackals howling at each other. He wanted no part of their world. He wanted only to slip under the silent wave into real white noise—not the contrived, horribly electronic machines they brought to him, trying to replicate what nature had perfected; could they not hear the hums, the whispers, the screams, the echoing howls of their damned machines at all hours of the day? And they thought he was mad for unplugging every device in his living quarters, ancient and opposed to change, when it was the only way he could begin to sleep at night—and bask in silence.

He laid at the bottom of the pool, wanting to weep, the tightness in his chest high and corded, but held on, because it was blessedly quiet.

And then a Good Samaritan fucked it all up, plunging in to save him only to flail in alarm when he gently dissuaded their reaching hand. He ended up nearly rescuing _them_ , boosting them onto the platform around the pool, asking all the right questions, speaking to all the right people who came in to see what all the fuss was about, every one of them Good Samaritans who wanted to be sure that nobody got hurt, all the while resisting the urge to scream in fury and bleeding outrage.

 _Watched_ , rang in his ears, and he did not visit that pool again.

. o .

A bath was not quite a _luxury_ , but it was an indulgence, like a piece of chocolate. One did not simply draw up a bath for the hell of it. There had to be a reason. 

_I am sick_ , he thought. His body was perfect, every heart beat measured and stable, every nonexistent respiration neat and clear, every measurable test coming back better-than-outstanding, and yet—something was awful inside him, festering and sickening and only getting worse. The monster was digging its claws deep into him, ripping up good topsoil, ruining any efforts to create a new life. _No sane man is like this_.

The bath was not big enough for his outsized body to even rest in properly, but he could contort himself so his head was underwater, and there, that mythical almost-silence prevailed.

. o .

The sickness became more consuming. He stopped eating.

They would not let him stop, though, insisting at first in gentle waves of suggestion to keep going, keep going, and no matter where he was in his day, people came up to him, accosted him, beseeched him to have a meal. When kindness failed, their entreaties became more forceful, military in nature, _eat-or-else_. When threats disintegrated, they started asking him what had broken inside of him, and silently sketching ways to fix him, like a toy that was stuck on its marching cycle.

The unspoken was placed on the table: _If you will not eat, we will make you_. It had not even startled him to hear it out loud, but it had been days since he had eaten, and he was tired, and hungry, and hungry-tired for silence.

He drew up a bath, but he didn’t use it, staring at the water until it chilled, nearly ice-cold when he dipped a hand into it, some unknown time later. He thought, _Wasteful_.

His Ma warned, _Don’t do it, my heart_.

He washed his face, at least. He did all right with that—at least, he thought he did.

That night, for the first time since awakening, he dreamed, in astonishing, petrifying, phantasmagorical detail, of black ice water invading his lungs, sinking into his eyes, filling his nose upside-down, drowning, drowning, drowning.

. o .

Afraid to be afraid of water, he went back to the pool. He didn’t even care that his life-preservers were in attendance, dutifully standing watch. Perhaps they hoped it would jog his need to survive, to have routine. Perhaps they thought it was a sign that the sickness had passed, that he was returning to his alien routine. Perhaps they hoped it was good.

Standing in front of the pool, he looked at the liquid sheet, and felt the water burning inside his nose, his eyes, his mouth.

His hands began to shake as he reached for his face, trying to cover, to uncover, to protect, to preserve, to extinguish the threat to his life. But his face was dry. There was nothing there.

 _All at once_ , he dared himself. The burn of water was like an itch under his skin.

He leaped. He sank.

The noise was louder than anything he had ever heard—terror, isolated. It was a screaming banshee in his ears, and he froze completely, overpowered, stock-still, black-out scared.

He did not know if he ever came up. One instant, he was breathing in water, the burn stronger than anything he’d ever tasted, or known, or imagined could exist, and yet colder than fire, colder than ice, colder than sensation, blistering to the bone; the next, his worldview tilted nauseatingly, punishingly upside-down.

The alien drifted towards him, a shadow in a blurry world.

Then he was under, too deep to reach, his senses obliterated in darkness and true silence.

. o .

Wires. Tubes. Straps. Voices.

“No one wants to see you suffer,” Nick Fury was saying. Steve was aware that he was aware—his body online, his senses processing, _Nicholas Fury, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D._ —but it was a dream. Covered in wires, tubes, and straps, he was surely living a nightmare. He was in the asylum, and there were two guards inside the room, dressed in all-black combat gear, lethally armed. “Give us a starting point. We are willing to talk.”

That got him to look, but not at Fury—around the room, at the rest of the asylum cell. There were half a dozen machines and even more straps on his arms, thick and individually wrapped from wrist to under-arm. There were eight steel bars across his legs, set in such a way that he’d have to break each bar individually to escape. There was even a strap around his waist. 

Testing the waters, he flexed one arm, as briefly and inconspicuously as possible, but he still noticed both guards flex in response, guns lifting the barest amount. Nick Fury didn’t move at all, saying calmly, “Take it easy, Cap. Just talk to us.”

Ignoring the placating statement, Steve flexed both arms, but instead of shoring up strength, he found unfathomable weakness. It only seemed stronger as the texture of the straps pressed against his skin. He looked at the tubes leading into both arms. He looked up at the bags overhead. Nausea and betrayal swam in his gut as he finally met Nick Fury’s one good eye and saw everything he wanted to know there.

 _You’re afraid_.

He tensed up, every muscle in his body going rigid and, ignoring the weird disconnect feeling, launched his left knee at the thickest metal bar. It cleaved messily, jaggedly. Nick Fury ordered, “ _Don’t shoot_.” Then: “Cap—” But Steve had already yanked his leg up again, breaking the second and third bars. One leg free. Heart pounding, far faster than he expected it to, he strained for the same momentum to break the fourth huge bar across his thigh. With his right leg fully pinned and his upper body tied down, it didn’t want to go anywhere at all.

Dizziness swam in his field of view suddenly, and he dropped his head back, afraid he would belly-under again if he didn’t. Nick Fury said calmly, “It was _just_ a _precaution_.” Then, easy as pie, he compressed something on the side of the huge bar, and it released without a fight.

Steve thought, _Now, now, **now** , _and didn’t waste another second.

It was a good precaution, he thought, even as Nick Fury insisted a third time, “Do _not_ shoot.” Precaution. Faster than an ordinary man could hope to combat or even follow, Steve shoved forward, working around the issue of being tied to the bed by taking it with him, snapping the back of it with a noisy crack. The tension on the ropes alleviated, and he quickly took advantage, rolling and using his body weight to snap the wires, tubes, and bars from their machines.

He landed on the floor. Two heavy bodies immediately fell on top of him, and he let out a short breath, heart still racing far faster than it had any right to, but desperation drove him to action, and he shoved upright, guys still clinging to him, with shaky insistence. He bashed them against the gurney, and felt at least one let go. He did it again for good measure, but when the second refused to let up, he reached back with an arm bleeding like a stuck pig to grab him forcefully, take him over his shoulder, and Nick Fury stated:

“ _Rogers_.”

One word took him down.

Exhausted of the fight he hadn’t signed up for, he let out a breath and did not move. The tension was palpable as more guards rushed in, six of them working hard to secure man. A headache pulsed in Steve’s skull. Tubes and wires dangled from his arms and chest. He was bleeding from one arm considerably, but he didn’t care. _All that precious blood_. Rather than throwing him in a jail cell to rot, they maneuvered him very carefully to his feet and frog-marched him to another secure cell.

They strapped him down, despite lessons learned, and sedated him. He did not go to sleep, but he could tell from the infusion of swimming uncertainty that it was not saline water in the bag strung overhead. He asked about the guard he had definitively knocked out. _I kill him?_ His words came out muddled, helpless, animal. _Did I kill him?_

They wouldn’t talk to him, too afraid, or too aggravated, or simply too tired themselves. 

_Captain America. He’s a sham_.

Ashamed and very, very tired, he vomited onto the floor, told them he’d have it in writing about what he’d done wrong come morning, and fell off a black cliff into blessed silence.

. o .

_Pa?_ Little Stevie Rogers sat in front of the gravestone, folding abruptly in the grass, the way that children do, no care for how far it was to the ground. _S’ me, Pa. I came ta see you. Ma says I shouldn’t. But I wanted ta see you. How’re you?_ Picking up a handful of grass, Stevie Rogers said, _I should go. Ma doesn’t want me to come here. Says it’s no good here. But I love you, Pa_. Standing up, he hesitated for a moment, then decisively wrapped his arms around himself. _Anyway. I’ll be around. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of Ma_.

. o .

True to his word, Steve shaped up.

A man embarrassing himself in front of his superiors tended to have that effect. He forced down flavorless food and stuck to a schedule, occupied from sunup to sundown. He even went to church on Sundays, sitting in rigid silence for an hour so that they could see he was doing better. He kept himself clean-shaven, tidy, and extremely presentable. He shook hands gently and met their eyes, but remembered to blink. He e told the doctors that he was feeling much better, and he made lists of all the things he _liked_ about the millennium, so he’d have answers ready for them.

He stayed away from the pools. He tried to sleep with the machines plugged in, and even learned how to make coffee with the new coffeemaker. He didn’t much like coffee, but everybody drank about it, so he drank it. He didn’t much like a lot of things, but by doing them, he became more like them, so he did them. He read the books and learned their mannerisms. He looked into social media, stared in bleak silence at the wall for several hours after, and finally gathered the strength to tell the doctors it was one of the things he did _not_ like.

Invisible people.

He was careful about how he worded it, though. _I miss the connection. I miss smelling food and touching people’s hands when I meet them. I miss thunderstorms. I miss loud traffic and quiet rooms._ He didn’t meant invisibility as a complaint, because whole sections of his life were invisible: the walls were full of invisible cameras, monitored by people he never saw, recording his mannerisms and discerning if he was well- or poorly-adaptive. He was conscious of his reading posture at night, and the hour, because they were always watching. He considered briefly taking out the cameras, but then they might get more creative, and the devil he knew _was_ one he could deal with.

He wrote letters, because the doctors said it was good to do so, and it was better than lying at the bottom of a pool, drowning. It helped him practice his handwriting, which was one of the things that had deteriorated after seventy years of complete stillness. His handwriting wasn’t the same anymore, but nobody seemed to care all that much, as long as he signed _Captain America_ for their autographs. At some point, he stopped giving autographs, because he was tired of the way it made him feel inside, like the lights were always on to his home.

The lights were never really on in his home, but people seemed happy with the show, and he was happy to be left alone, and the better he became at navigating the cruel new world, the more aloneness he acquired.

Aloneness was precious. It was time with the graves, beyond his Ma’s eyes, but he would take her remonstrances not to dwell over a dead man’s imagery over their rigorous calculations on how to keep him alive, any day.

 _Do not pretend to care about men you do not care about_ , he did not tell them. He simply signed his name, clocked in and clocked out, and curled up under the sheets for eight hours, even though he only slept for two of them.

Alone time was precious.

. o .

One late night, he found himself at the pool again. Nobody accompanied him—his life-preservers weren’t on-duty like they had been in the days when he had swam every day—and he slid just his legs into the water, sitting at the edge of the pool.

Then he came too close to weeping, so he ducked under the water prevent the inevitable disaster from happening. Although he soaked his clothes, he didn’t freak out. The cloying emotion inside him was too strong to let anything else in.

It was ugly, and awful, but not frightening. As he slid out of the pool, miserable and disappointed in himself for even trying to recapture something long gone, he thought, _Never again_.

. o .

Months later, he would move into Stark Tower.

There was a lot to take in, but above all else, there was a _pool_.

Stark had promised privacy. Stark had openly decreed that he didn’t care what they did in their free time. Steve took his promise to heart, staring with such intense longing at the pool that he thought he might pass out before he took a move towards or away from it. He stripped off his shirt, waded in, and ducked under. And there, he found _silence_.

Perfect, obliterating, devastating-in-its-purity _quiet_. He fanned out onto his back, heartbeat so slow, body so warm. Nobody needed him. Nobody knew what to do with him. Nobody _existed_.

Hours passed. Years. The burn in his lungs became consumptive, eating its own oxygen, but he lingered, almost savoring the sensation, like choking on a cigarette. Familiar poison, for familiar peace.

Finally, glancing at his watch—eight minutes, no less—he squeezed his eyes shut, loathing the return to the surface, and twisted around, broke loose. 

He drew in a huge breath, deep in its density, but not desperate, not panicked. Just _alive_. He walked across the pool towards the deepest edge, near the windows, admiring the _view_. It wasn’t a deep pool—five feet, maybe, he could _stand_ on the bottom and escape submersion—but he suspected that wasn’t the purpose. Every pool had its purpose.

Flopping back contentedly, he sucked in a breath on the way down and stayed under for four minutes. A little woozy by the fourth meditative dive, he considered getting out, before deliberately folding his arms on the edge of the pool and staring out the windows at the slowly lowering sun, deep in the forest of metal trees. God, it was pretty. Now _that_ was a view.

Then he turned when he heard the doors slide open, accompanied by absentminded whistling. “Hey, Cap,” Hawkeye greeted, waving a book and wearing his own swimwear. “Beat me to it.”

Not particularly in the mood for conversation, Steve hauled himself out of the water, stifling a wince at the buckets of water that promptly sheared off him. _Stark’ll handle it_. “All yours,” he assured.

“Sweet,” was all Hawkeye said.

. o .

It was like its own meditation, diving underwater and laying there.

 _Mental break?_ the doctors wrote, when he mentioned that he liked swimming. 

_I like how quiet it is. I like how people leave me alone_ , he didn’t say. _Gotta get over our fears sometimes_ , he lied instead.

They thought he was brave, or crazy, for daring to go near the water, after everything. But riders got back on the horse after terrible accidents. Not all of them. But some of them.

He was Captain America, the _indomitable will_.

No one could fathom that he wouldn’t tackle his own demons, head-on. They didn’t know he wouldn’t take a cold shower at gunpoint. They didn’t need to. They saw him dive into a pool and stared in _wonder_. They sent him on semi-aquatic missions and cheered his resilience and bravery. He was inspirational to them. He was inspirational to the ones who had lost limbs in the line of duty.

 _You’re a coward_.

He surfaced before he could choke on the thought, shivering once harshly and lingering in the water for a moment. Disturbed, he climbed out, dried off, and stayed with his routine, ignoring the invitation to play poker with the team. _Not part of the schedule_.

The next time he slipped under the water, chasing peace, he couldn’t help but notice that the voice was right. _You’re a coward._

He stayed under, but the weight of water seemed oppressive, the noise loud, and he surfaced again, two minutes in. _You’re a coward_ , the voice repeated, outside the water, and he flinched, retreated.

The third time, he thought he might actually be going crazy. _Stop it. Get up. Move on. This is a coward’s way out_.

Refusing to budge, mind-over-matter, he stayed down until his lungs burned, the pitch of the critic seeming only to rise with the urgency: _You’re a coward. You’re a coward. You’re a scared soldier who can’t pick up his gun anymore. What will you do when there’s a real war? You think they want you here to lie down and die?_ He didn’t look at his watch, didn’t want to know, squeezing his eyes shut. _They don’t need you. They never needed you. You have an expiration date_. He was suffocating slowly, but he didn’t care. 

_I’m stronger than this. I’m stronger than you._

_You are a coward. You can’t run from this_.

He didn’t need to run. He was always present. He did everything right. _I do everything right_ , he reminded.

 _Coward’s way out_ , the voice reminded.

He shivered once, an involuntary spasm, and held on, tight-fisted, determined. The burn was steady, not violently urgent. The water was shallow. If he stood up, he would not drown. _I am no coward_ , he insisted, proof in his resilience. But it was to a silent, empty space.

Black dots spotting his vision, he drew in a sudden, completely involuntarily gasp of a breath, and shoved himself upright.

He lunged for the side of the pool, vomiting water, wheezing for breath, clinging to it even though his feet were firmly planted, shaking like a leaf in a gale. Eyes shut, he flinched when he heard the door open, longed to be anything but a coward and let go of the wall, sink under so he could hide, but—

 _Coward_.

He thought of S.H.I.E.L.D., of repercussions for failure, and pulled himself out of the pool, dragging himself over the smooth flooring on his belly, heedless of the water he pulled with him. He couldn’t make himself get up, three long seconds, and jerked violently when he felt a towel land on his back. “Jesus, guy installs a five-foot-deep pool, thinks nobody can drown in it,” uttered the last voice he wanted to hear, eyes squeezing shut in involuntary agony.

 _I know guys with none’a that worth ten’a you_. He planted a hand on the floor, pushing himself upright, and Stark drawled, “Caught a live one.” He lingered maybe three steps away, no closer, only his feet visible from Steve’s humiliatingly lowly position. He brought his knees under himself, towel sliding off his back. “This one’s, what, hundred-and-ten kilos?” Stark went on, utterly flippant.

“Shut up,” Steve rasped, his voice sandpapery.

Stark said, “Guy almost saves another guy’s life, this is the thanks he gets?”

For one all-consuming instant, Steve was tempted to grab his ankle and drag him right into the pool, like the flipper passing by as the diver swam for the surface. The impulse passed nearly as quickly as it arrived, but not quickly enough—not quickly enough. He tensed in readiness, and Stark fell palpably silent. Then he said, consummately ending any conflict, “I’m sorry.”

Stark just said in a very different, almost venomous tone, “Just don’t do it again. Paperwork is a pain in the ass with the landlord.” The door slid shut smoothly behind him.

Steve waited a moment longer, tense as a board, before giving a single, full-body shiver at the thought of _almost_.

 _Something’s wrong with me_.

. o .

Peace was hard to come by in the new world. Stark got on his nerves. Their boss-landlord relationship was a point of weird contention—Stark seemed to think that he owed no loyalty to the Avengers, while Steve rejected the idea that Stark was the king of anything, even Stark Tower, and would happily move out, even though Stark always sighed and made peace if the arguments came to it—and their general dynamic was, at best, hostile.

At worst, explosive.

“Gee, three marks, I should write you up a demerit,” Stark grumbled, kicking over his shoes. “Leaving these for anyone to fucking trip on.”

Refusing to rise to the bait, Steve kept reading in his corner, sensing Stark’s huffiness and consciously ignoring it. “Guy lets five people live with him, can’t get a fucking _thank you_ around here?” Stark asked, slamming cabinet doors loudly. He popped open a bottle.

Steve couldn’t stop his own words: “It’s three-thirty.”

“Oh, my God,” Stark deadpanned, pausing where he was pouring out a glass. “You know, I had no idea. I was just _working_ so hard. Unlike some people.”

Something ugly built in Steve’s chest. He gripped his book and refused to look, to entertain. “Sounds like a personal problem,” he deadpanned, throwing back one of his own quips.

He might have deserved the glass at his chair, but he still flinched as it shattered on the floor. “Oh fuck _you_ ,” Stark spat. “Get out.”

Steve shut his book, turned his chair, and held his ground. “No.”

Even from across the room, he could see how bloodshot Stark’s eyes were. He looked— _deranged_ was wrong. Uncut, untethered, like he had a gun without ammo and was patrolling the line for hidden Nazi soldiers.

 _Those analogies don’t work anymore_ , Steve thought, rising slowly.

Stark tipped back the bottle, drew a long swig, and practically wretched a gasp. “See, now look what you’ve done. God, that hits. Unlike _you_. I let you come into my home, and all you ever do is _nag_. All of you. At least Pepper was _busy_. What do _you_ do?”

His hand was shaking around the bottle. Anger was a distant neighbor in Steve’s sightline. He asked quietly, “Are you okay?”

Stark didn’t hear him. Maybe couldn’t. He took another swig, grimaced, and said, “I have a fucking headache.” It could have been an answer, but he suspected it was just an admission. “You, too. You’re my headache.” He pointed the bottle at Steve, accusing, “All of you. Fucking _Avengers_. I didn’t _ask_ for this. I just wanted. . . .” Capping the bottle, he set it down, stalked off, and clipped his hip on the counter. He barked out a curse.

Steve had nothing to fear, so he didn’t hesitate. Stepping inside arm’s reach slowly, he said, “What happened?”

Stark nearly snarled at him. “Get away from me.”

Steve considered holding his ground. _Answer me_ , was on his tongue. Instead, reluctantly but obligingly, he stepped back. He put the island between them.

Stark shivered. He looked very cold, pale and worn and abruptly smaller than the titan of an industry worth billions.

For a moment, Steve thought he would simply walk out of the room, ending the conversation. It had been the ideal outcome, moments before; now, it seemed like the worst-case scenario. “Stark,” he began, formal and conciliatory, and then, almost on impulse: “Tony. Talk to me.”

Tony made a strangled noise, still looking down at the table, then said in a completely dead tone, “Why do we fight, Cap? To end the fight? To go home?” Looking over, his eyes black with awareness that his gun was out of ammo, that he was defenseless and going to die if the war did not end soon enough, Tony rasped, “Are we at war or in peace? Because I _shut_ that _shit_ down, and there’s no way out of this war.” He gripped the edge of the table, so angry it looked like it hurt.

Steve said simply, unembellished and without expectation: “I’m sorry.”

Tony flicked a wary glance at him. The pause was painfully long. “I didn’t sign up for this. You did.” It was an accusation. A justification.

Steve said, “World was different. World needed soldiers.” He eased one step closer around the island. Tony tensed. He paused. “Now? I don’t know. I don’t know, Tony. Maybe it doesn’t. . . .” _There’s no ammo left in his gun. Don’t you dare say it_. “Maybe it doesn’t end.”

Tony blinked at him, once. He looked down at his grip on the table, released it. 

Returning to the bottle, he uncapped it, took another long gulp. Then, oddly, he extended it, offering.

Steve didn’t much care for alcohol, not least at three-thirty in the morning, but he took the bottle, anyway, and drank. He handed it back.

Tony said in a dead voice, “I think I’m gonna go lie down.” He swayed a little on his feet, his eyes nearly as shell-shocked as his voice. As if he’d truly expected Steve to lie and say, _Of course it’ll get better someday, Tony. The war’s over. Haven’t you heard?_

With plenty of lead time behind each step, Steve flowed around the counter, hooked an arm around his back, and hugged him. 

Tony didn’t respond, limp in his grip, but he didn’t jerk back, just _leaned_ into him, his full weight next to nothing against Steve Rogers’ indomitable super-serum. Pressed against him, exhausted, defeated, he seemed to weigh nothing, and somehow he carried the world.

 _You came for me_ , Steve thought, holding on, surprised at how— _reassuring_ it was, just to hold onto him. _You came for me, when you thought I was drowning_.

And it hadn’t started with the pool.

It had started with an offer to stay at the Tower, unpresumptuous as they came, so unpresumptuous it shouldn’t have come from Tony Stark’s lips. But he had been the one to welcome them, and Steve didn’t know _why_ , but he knew it would be cruelty to let him drown in front of him.

“S’okay,” he lied, the lie that Tony needed to hear, some of the tension easing from his bone-rigid spine. “I’m here,” he promised, the truth.

. o .

“I don’t know what your fucking deal is,” Tony said, lying on the floor next to him, head on his chest, rhapsodizing to the ceiling. “Frozen on ice for seventy years.” Hiccupping silently, he curved a hand around the arm anchored over his chest, his new gun, and mused, “Loves water. What is it? Miss it?”

Steve said nothing for a moment. “No,” he allowed. That much was true. “I don’t know, Tony.” Then, honestly: “I like the silence.”

A grin spilled across Tony’s lips, even as he shut his eyes in rueful concession. “Oh, _well_ —”

“No,” Steve cut in, already sensing the argument building. “No, I—it’s fine.”

“Fine or _I’m one_ fucking _comment away from burning this whole place down, Stark?_ ” Tony said, almost snickering. The bottle was mostly gone, but Steve had done his best to do his part. Tony had already been three-quarters of the way to drunk before walking in the door, though, and the only thing he could do for _that_ was to sit on the floor with him and let him hug his arm. “Because I’ll have you know, this place costs—”

“I like hearin’ you talk,” Steve assured, which actually shut him up for a moment.

Absently fiddling with Steve’s arm, Tony said, “That’s a first.” His voice was very small. “I mean, I normally charge a thousand bucks an hour for people to hear me talk, so. . . .” Hiccupping again, he added, “Ugh. Don’t drink on planes.”

“Can’t get drunk.”

“Not important.” Turning, pulling Steve’s arm over himself like a blanket and almost cuddling into his chest, Tony said, “Say anything about this, I’ll deny it.”

“Mmhm.” Perfectly content in a weird way, Steve said, “Actually, this is pretty normal.”

Tony squinted blearily up at him. “Pardon?”

“You know. Back in my day, the guys and I, we were family.” He shrugged. “Colonel’d call us ‘prairie dogs’ because we were always so packed in. Made the watch more bearable.”

“Kinky,” Tony yawned.

Steve chastised, “Tony.” Smirking, Tony buried his face against Steve’s chest, hiding his expression. Wanting to explain himself, Steve added, “Guy like you’s probably never had to share a—”

“False,” Tony cut in, then snickered. Steve smiled a little in spite of himself, both at the sound and the sensation.

“All right, guy like _you’s_ probably—”

“False,” Tony grumbled. “Asshole. Stop judging me.”

“I’m not judgin’ you,” Steve replied, firming his grip and settling down against the couch more comfortably. “I’m tryin’ to get a point across.”

“You’re a shit debater.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. Total doormat.”

“Back in my day, we call that ‘bein’ polite’—”

“Classic doormat,” Tony cut in brusquely. “Forget star signs.” Shimmying up, Tony planted a hand square on his chest, squinted down at him, and declared, “You need to grow a pair.”

Arching both eyebrows, Steve said, “What?”

Nodding sagely, Tony said, “Cojones. Get some. Your line of work, I can’t believe someone hasn’t walked all over you. Seriously, where’s your handler? How the _fuck_ did they let you off the reservation? Aren’t you insured for like, a hundred billion dollars?”

Blinking several times at the onslaught of information, Steve said, “I don’t think they have that kind of money in print.”

Tony looked back at him, hand still digging into his chest, before grinning abruptly and saying, “Okay, that’s it, I _am_ gonna be an asshole about it. God, you really don’t know what’s changed, do you?”

The way he said it, _in on the joke_ , kept the atmosphere easy. “I know enough,” he defended quietly.

Tony made an ambiguous noise. “Tell you what. You be my royal cushion, I will show you the _world_.”

“. . . So, you want me to be a doormat,” Steve deadpanned, which made Tony laugh, a real, unexpected, surprisingly heartwarming snicker.

“I said _cushion_ ,” Tony insisted, flopping against him carelessly, exactly like he was a couch cushion. “See? Perfectly made for it.”

Humming a little, Steve said, “People talk. Could get a little weird, during meetings.”

“Shut up. Shut up, I have a plan.” Holding up a hand for silence, Tony said, “We _cancel_ the meetings.”

Rubbing his back slowly, Steve announced, “You’re very drunk. You know that?” After a beat, he added, “Probably kick my ass for this, once you sober up.”

“Please. I have amazing recall. You have perfect recall.” He poked Steve in the side. “Jerk. Some of us _work_ for a living.” But he didn’t say it quite meanly, just an observation. _The serum, eh?_ “What’s it like? Being the peak of human perfection?”

Caught off-guard, Steve couldn’t respond, but he didn’t need to—by the time he’d even come up with, _it’s different_ , Tony snored against his chest.

 _Cushion_ , he mused, letting Tony Stark, genius, billionaire, playboy—play-boy, that was a new one—philanthropist, snore on his chest.

. o .

“It really doesn’t bug you?”

Steve almost fell, letting out his breath abruptly and reclaiming his feet as he sank promptly, looking over at Tony, fully-dressed and expressing no visible interest in going for a swim but watching him, oddly intent.

Looking around himself, abruptly hyper-aware of the water as an _object_ and not a _place_ , Steve shivered once, then clambered out of the pool, playing it off with a simple lie: “Honestly, Tony, I barely remember it.”

Tony arched both eyebrows, invited him to check out his lab—hardly an opportunity Steve would miss, even if he suspected it was less for his reeducation benefit and more for Tony to show off his brand new suit, which he spent several hours lovingly explaining to Steve’s surprising interest—and didn’t need to know that he awoke in a cold sweat with the unshakable feeling that he’d almost drowned without a drop of water near his lungs.

. o .

_A fella could get used to this_. 

Arms folded behind his head at the bottom of the pool, Steve was on minute nine, lung capacity nearing but not at its upper limit, when the lights went off.

All the air in his lungs promptly vanished. Terror took over.

He scrambled, and there was abruptly light, but the damage was done. 

Breaching the surface, he heaved for breath, scrambling to drag himself out. Ignoring towel and shirt, he fled, crashing into the doors behind they opened, impatient and beyond terror. It wasn’t enough, the entire hallway was the same enclosed metal space, and he couldn’t move, paralyzed, terrified, putting shaky steps between himself and the terrible room.

He found his own room, uncaring that he had left water on the floor half the distance, manually slamming the door shut, barricading it, and heaving in a breath.

He collapsed next to the bed, sank both hands into his hair, and gasped helplessly for air. 

It wasn’t coming. _It wasn’t coming_.

Shaking and shaken to his core, he tried to regain some semblance of composure and couldn’t. Hauling the blanket off his bed, he cocooned himself in it, stuffing it into his mouth so he would not scream.

. o .

A knock on the door called his awareness to the passage of time, but he was too numb to startle. How long had it been? He ached, inside and outside, and he was cold. The ambient room temperature was too cold. He didn’t know how to adjust it.

“Hey. Cap? You in there?” Tony asked.

Steve didn’t respond.

“Well, I’m just gonna say that we’re ordering pizza, so if you want a vote, speak now or forever hold your peace.” He could hear Tony rock back and forth on his heels once, hopefully. “Okay, I’m not good at this—let me in?”

Steve drew in a shallow breath. He couldn’t make it less shaky, but he could make it quiet. Tony didn’t respond to it, adding, “I hate to say it, but I know you’re in there. J.A.R.V.I.S. can sense heat, so unless there’s a burglar, in which case, I _do_ have a gun—not on me, of course, but—I mean, I am heavily armed and I _will_ shoot.” He knocked on the door again, imploring, “Cap. C’mon. Capcom to Cap, this is Tony Stark, do you copy, over?”

 _Coward,_ the voice whispered.

Steve didn’t move.

Tony said, “All right, you know where to find me. Or J.A.R.V.I.S. does. Just say, _J.A.R.V.I.S., my sweet son, my darling electronic companion, my wondrous and impeccable creation—_ ”

“I’m listening, sir,” a pristine Englishman cut in from the other side of the door.

“Ahem. He’s here for ya, if, you know, you wanna order takeout. But that’s what we’re ordering, so—all right. Roger out.” After a beat, he added, “Oh, and J., introduce yourself politely, please and thank you.”

Steve twitched violently when the same Englishman greeted politely from the desk on the other side of the room, “Hello. My name is Just A Rather Very Intelligent System, but you may call me ‘Just.’ I am, as the humans would say, ‘just kidding’—my name is actually J.A.R.V.I.S., but you may call me J. if it pleases you. And now that I have concluded my formal introduction,” the same voice added in a different, almost exasperated sounding tone, “I can begin my proper introduction. 

“I am J.A.R.V.I.S., your intelligent, artificial companion. If you have any questions, I am here to answer them. I can also relay the weather forecast, provide movie recommendations, optimize wine-and-cheese pairings, and recite the entirety of Sun Tzu’s _The Art of War_ from database memory, among one-hundred-and-fifty thousand additional selections. Might I recommend Chopin?”

Piano music piped in through the speaker on the opposite side of the bed. Steve thought about looking over to regard the man properly, but he supposed it didn’t entirely matter, anyway, since the man himself was clearly elsewhere and simply operating the radio. As the piano music filtered through the room, he felt some of the aching tension relax from his shoulders, and shortly found himself simply listening, eyes shut and absorbing the astonishingly clear concert music from the comfort of his own bedroom.

 _Well_ , he mused, damp around the edges, cold and weary and a touch world-weary but somehow sitting in his own bedroom and listening to _Chopin_ , _maybe the future ain’t so bad_.

He had nearly entered a meditative state when Jarvis dimmed the tune and announced, “Master Stark wishes to convey a message: ‘Fresh dough, come and get your fresh dough.’”

He thought about ignoring the summons, content to listen to the piano, but—well, it would be rude, wouldn’t it? Tony had let his own butler—since when had he had a _butler?_ —keep him company. It was only fair that he make an appearance.

“I’ll be down,” Steve said.

“Happy to hear it, sir,” Jarvis replied, conveying a moment later: “Master Stark says, ‘Fresh outta fresh dough, stale dough still serving.’”

Smiling a little, Steve made himself presentable, unbarricaded the door, and joined them.

“Aw, shoot, all outta stale dough,” Tony said, inflicting a deliberately heavy Brooklyn accent. “Down to _inedible dough, getcha inedible dough, inedible dough will surely go!_ ”

“You make that up yourself?” Steve asked dryly, peeling off a slice of the most mouth-watering (decidedly _hot_ and _fresh_ dough) he’d ever had the pleasure of bein’ near.

“All by myself,” Tony agreed, sitting on top of the kitchen counter with a box beside himself. “Dough don’t go ‘til the crows, crow!” He took another hearty slice of pizza.

Natasha Romanoff supplicated, “Please, stop him.” Flipping her off in a somehow friendly fashion, Tony merely replied:

“See if I _ever_ buy any of you pizza again.” His eyes practically twinkled as he said it, and he scooted over to indicate the ledge next to himself, so Steve—well, what kind of gracious friend would he be if he didn’t accept the spot?

“You two age me,” Natasha replied.

“Like fine _wine_ ,” Tony said, hip-to-hip and so goddamn warm, so goddamn _sweet_ it made Steve’s heart hurt a little. “Ain’t that right, sweetums?”

Sighing, Natasha picked up her box, announced, “I’m done,” and Tony beamed as she walked out of the room.

“Our beautiful family,” Tony said, sounding genuinely delighted.

“Good day?” Steve asked him.

Shrugging a little, Tony said, “I’m Tony Stark, so—sure.” He took another bite, then added, “Gimme some’a that inedible dough, I wanna see if it tastes as good as my fresh dough—”

“You gonna do that all night?” Steve asked dryly, holding the box out of reach.

“Abso-fucking- _lutely_.”

Sighing in mock chagrin, Steve said, “Gee, Tony. Here I thought you were above us little folk.”

Tony elbowed him, then stole his pizza box, anyway. “It’s cute, y’know, real rustic,” he said, almost too quickly to be heard, and Steve blinked, surprised.

“Cute?” he repeated, aware that it came out a little heavily, and saw Tony’s ears turn bright red. He grinned. “Awh, Tony. That’s—”

Tony shoved his face aside, but he still insisted, “ _Adorable_.”

“No, it’s not, I said it was horrible and obnoxious, as you can see, it drove our only friend from the room.”

On cue, Bruce Banner appeared, asking meekly, “I heard there was pizza?”

“Inedible dough, it’s _got_ to _go_!” Tony beamed, indicating the small tower of boxes still left on the table.

Bruce cringed back a step, wary but hopeful, adding, “Is this a test?”

“Help yourself, Banner,” Steve assured.

Looking at him, big deer-in-headlights eyes hopeful, he asked, “You su—”

“Please, for the love of God, take my pizza,” Tony insisted. Bruce grabbed a box and ran. Tony sighed in exaggerated happiness. “I am the best landlord of all time.”

“Really are, Tony,” Steve agreed.

“Worst cook. Best landlord,” he confided with a wink.

 _Best everything_ , Steve thought, taking another bite of fresh dough.

. o .

“It was different,” Tony said abruptly, “before.”

He didn’t say _before what_.

Steve prompted, “What was?” The pizza was long gone—even the supposedly inedible dough had gone, and they were both hanging out, passing time into the wee hours, long after Steve’s scheduled resting period. _You still need more rest than I do_ , he thought, but he didn’t begrudge Tony’s lively late-night manner, not at all. He liked talking to him. The darkness wasn’t loud with him around.

“Before,” Tony repeated, fidgeting a little with his hands. He’d brought it up, so Steve waited, patient. Seated on opposite sides of the table, he propped his feet on Steve’s knees. Steve didn’t push them away. He didn’t quite know why, except that it was Tony, so why would he? “Sometimes, I think we feel freest when we’re . . . weightless.” But he shuddered when he said the word, paling.

They moved to the couch and resumed their same poses, except now, Tony’s entire legs were on top of Steve’s. He still didn’t mind. He wasn’t holding him down. He was just _there_. “I love being up in the air,” Tony said. “I dream about it. I’m . . . in my mind, I never come down. My ground level is ten thousand feet. My altimeter is never right, because . . . I can’t _live_ up there, but I do. And yet—I’m scared shitless of what’s beyond.” He swallowed hard. “I never go beyond, but I never come down. You know what that’s like? To be scared shitless of the thing you need to breathe?”

Steve said simply, “I have an idea.”

Tony shoved off the couch, pacing, ranting, “I need my . . . up there, I’m _free_. You get that? It’s not a _job_. It’s . . . he’s . . . we’re not _one_. We’re symbiotes. Iron Man doesn’t exist without me. And sometimes I think, Tony Stark doesn’t—well, I know I wouldn’t _be here_ without him. Hear that? That’s the short plank to insanity.”

Watching him, one arm slung along the back of the couch, Steve stayed silent. Tony huffed, “People think he’s a war machine. That’s what we called it, we joked about it, and we fucking—jinxed it. They rebranded it, but that’s what it _is_. That’s what Iron Man becomes, on the market. You get that? You see what’s gonna happen? People are going to . . . .” He paused, looking out the windows at the darkness, and sighed deeply, “They’re gonna fuck with it. They’re gonna take something beautiful and _ruin_ it. At least when you build a _gun_ , you know it kills people. It’s just a tool. And that’s not what he _is_. He is _not_ a gun.”

Frustrated, he sat hard in a chair opposite Steve and said, “People fucking ruin everything. You know? They burn everything they touch. Can’t just enjoy a good thing. I _built_ Iron Man because they told me to make a _gun_. You know that?” Steve didn’t. There was a lot he didn’t know. It showed on his face, because Tony’s expression darkened, saddened. “They wanted me to fight their war, so I made something to get out. And they’re gonna make _him_ into a war machine. They’re gonna. . . .” He rubbed a hand over his face. “And I just think, if I died in the desert, at least then nobody fucks him up—”

“Glad you didn’t.” Tony looked up, haunted. “I’m glad you didn’t die, Tony,” Steve repeated, quiet but earnest.

Leaning forward, arms slung over his knees, Tony looked right at him and asked, “Be a bit hypocritical if you were happy, huh?”

Steve parsed that out for a moment. Tony looked at him unblinkingly, challengingly. Daring him to say it.

Getting to his own feet, Steve walked to the windows, looked out at the glowing, golden, silver-blue city, and said, “No, I don’t think it would.” After a short beat, he explained, “I didn’t ask to wake up.” Another pause. “I signed up to serve my country during a time of war. I didn’t sign up for this. I’m . . . outta my depth. And . . . it’s like you said. There, it’s . . . free. It’s . . . somewhere I can go, and nobody can follow.”

“They’ll try.” Tony smirked, visible in the reflection, tiny and almost blurry but there.

Steve nodded. “We all want peace. It’s why we fought a war. To _end_ the war.” He stared out at the city, aware of Tony getting up, glad he didn’t approach too close, pausing well away, leaning a hip against the couch. Looking at him, Steve said, “But I guess that’s not how it works. Doesn’t end like that. Not that simple.” He smiled ruefully. “You’re not crazy, Stark. Or—maybe you are crazy. But your kind of crazy is admirable. It’ll do someone good. Innovative.”

Waltzing over slowly, Tony asked, “And yours?”

Shrugging, Steve said, “I don’t know. Sometimes, I think I’m just the inhibition to good.”

“Awfully maudlin way of looking at it,” Tony said, slinging his arms around Steve’s waist, comfortable. “I think you still got good in you.”

“I’m not . . . _good_ ,” Steve said, the words painful, like broken glass. Tony frowned a little. “I’m—something’s wrong with me. Something’s all broken inside me. And I don’t think it ever gets fixed. I think I just gotta keep it down, or it—”

“Eats you alive?”

“Yeah. Something like.” Aware that he sounded defeated, Steve said, “The only good I got is good after my expiration date. I’m—I’m broken, Tony, and everybody wants me to be—”

Squeezing his waist, Tony said, “You know what? I think that’s bullshit.”

“Tony,” Steve began.

“No, shush. I’m serious.” Squeezing harder like he was trying to impress the gravity of his point through force alone, Tony let go and insisted, “It is _bullshit_ that you think you’re out of the game. No. Guess what? We’re all fucked up. I couldn’t sleep through the night for _years_ after Afghanistan. You’ve been unfrozen for, what, nine months? And you’re _swimming_ in your free time? Fucking _bullshit_ , Rogers,” he added, shaking his head. 

“You’re _trying_ ,” Tony insisted. “You get that? Getting through shit, it’s not a line, it’s a curve. It’s a loop-de-loop, and we’re stuck going backwards half the time, but we’re still _going_. You’re in the game, you’re gonna go backwards, you’re gonna fuck shit up. I do it all the time, you know how many times I’ve set myself on fire? I’ll have J.A.R.V.I.S. tally it up later, point it— _point is_ , you’re not broken, this entire game is just fucked up. And _you_. . . you think, after all that’s happened, you’d just be _okay_ with _everything_ in _nine months?_ God, I _still_ can’t go near a pool, and it’s been four _years_. What is _wrong_ with you?” he asked.

Steve shook his head. But Tony just said, “That’s, _that’s_ the part I don’t get. You save five million people— _minimum,_ I might add—and we bring you back, and you think you have to earn the right to live, and you sure as shit better be okay inside a year or we’re cutting you from the program. God. What did they make you from? Titanium? I mean, don’t answer that, I get it—but I’m not talking about the _serum_ ,” he impressed, pressing palm into fist. “I’m talking about _you_. What is _with_ you?” Shaking his head, grabbing Steve’s sleeve and pulling him along abruptly, he said, “I wanna show you something. You can say no, but—lemme show you what I wanna show you, all right?”

. o .

“Terrifying, isn’t it?” Iron Man asked, voice metallic but still, underneath the modulator, Tony’s.

One arm wrapped around his waist, both feet resting on the metal boots, able to _feel_ the energy, a rocket in permanent launch, he simply stared at the landscape in mute wonder, unable to vocalize what it was.

“It’s worse, at night,” Iron Man—Tony—said, somewhat breathless, but still so rock-steady, and underneath the shakiness, the shiver of fear, so _calm_. “It’s easier, in the day. See all the clouds, the blue, the birds and bees—I mean, I can’t actually see bees up here, and I sure as hell don’t wanna see birds, do you know what a pain in the ass a goose in the air is? Fucking _God_.”

Steve laughed in spite of himself, aware that there was a story there, but Tony just breezed on, “But this, this is the worst. I hate this with my whole heart. I am going to drop you and then drop myself and the world is going to be pissed off at both of us because we had responsibilities and—Steve, we’re at 12,000 feet. It’s pitch-black up here. Do you get it? Is this the spark of madness?”

“No,” Steve finally said, finding his voice, the question perfect: “It’s beautiful.” Looking down, he added, “It’s so . . . it’s like _stars_. Down there.”

“Wanna see stars? Up there?” Tony waited ‘til he looked at the mask, even though all he could see was the glowing white-blue mask. And it was a little hard to breathe up here, but he _could_ breathe, and that, in itself, was remarkable. “I gotcha,” Tony preluded, and then, not quite falling but leaning backwards, he shifted until he was lying on his back, and instructed, “Look, Iron Boat.” Fanning out both hands, he added, “I’m a genius, you know.”

Steve was too busy carefully planting a hand on his chest— “Watch the reactor,” Tony warned, so he did—and very, very carefully sitting up. “Kinky,” Tony added, but Steve ignored that, too, looking up and blinking at the _stars_. “Pretty neat, huh?” he asked, using his hands to stabilize. “Don’t let go.” Hugging Iron Man’s sides with his knees, Steve looked up, starstruck in the truest sense. “It’s different up here, isn’t it?” Tony mused.

“It’s beautiful,” Steve acknowledged, one hand on his chest for balance. He stretched the other upwards, saying, “We really went to the Moon?”

“Mm-hm.” Then, almost apologetically, Tony said, “All right, monkey, hold on. This is killing my back.” Obligingly, Steve shifted his grip so he could curl it around Iron Man’s back, pressing up against him, exactly like a monkey, as Tony straightened in midair. “Ahhhh. That’s better. I need more stabilizers in the calves, not used to carrying two hundred pounds on the hips.” Steve could almost hear the wink, one metal arm curling securely under his hips to support him. “Look, I caught a space monkey. They said it couldn’t be done.”

“I love you,” Steve said.

Tony made a slightly garbled sound, then added more clearly, “Huh—wow. Wow. That—yes. Twelve thousand feet, I’m definitely taking first dates to—I mean. This isn’t—I’m—I think I’m having a stroke, is this what a stroke feels like? Are you a mirage? God, you’re a really heavy mirage.”

Laughing, Steve curved one arm around his neck and pressed his cheek against freezing metal. “Oh, no, don’t do that,” Tony groaned metallically. “You’re gonna get stuck, shoo.” He let out a hiss of warm air near the neck. Steve grinned, tilting his head to kiss the metal cheek playfully. “Oh, God, now you’re _really_ gonna get stuck.”

“This side’a you—a guy could get used to it,” Steve said.

“Putting it in a box and burying that box deep, deep, deep down. It will compress into a _diamond_. That is how deeply I will bury this box. We’re gonna be _rich_.”

“I love you,” Steve said again.

Tony sighed, very long, very metallically. “Well, _asshole_. Now, this is just awkward. As a _gentleman,_ I really pride myself on making the first move. My reputation is ruined.”

“Your reputation is fine,” Steve assured, warmly amused.

“Ruined,” Tony insisted. “Shattered. You’ve ruined me. Now what am I gonna do? Say it _back_? That’s just unoriginal.” Sighing again, he added, “Hold on.”

They set down on the balcony gently. Tony popped the mask, looked at Steve, and said, “I love . . . you. With me. I love being with you.” Looking down at himself, he added, “This is never a good look, half-and-half—”

Steve cupped the metal sides of his head, leaned up, and kissed his forehead. Tony sighed a little, curling his own metal hands around Steve’s waist, repulsors still warm from the flight.

Pulling back, he almost anticipated Tony’s quip: “Now, see, you missed.”

Arching his eyebrows, Steve replied, “Did I?”

Tony nodded somberly. “Missed. For shame.”

“Maybe I was just being a gentleman,” Steve said.

“Or an idiot,” Tony quipped back, smiling a little as he reeled him in for a proper kiss.

. o .

_Three months later_.

 _Malibu, California_.

“I do not like this,” Tony informed, both arms folded over his bare chest.

“No one says you have to do it, Tony,” Steve reminded, standing in the shallow end of the pool.

“No, I have to,” Tony bit out. “I _want_ to,” he insisted. “Limits are chicken-shit.” He took one step into the pool, shuddered, and stepped back out. “See? Totally useless.”

“Would it be easier if I—” Steve began, but Tony shook his head.

“Can’t do it on my own.”

Drifting closer to the stairs, Steve offered, “I know you can.”

“Really?” Looking down at him, searching for the lie, for the painfully-needed truth, Tony said, “You _know_ or you—”

Extending a hand, Steve offered, “I won’t let you drown.”

Tony looked at his hand. Then his face. Then back at his hand. His eyes practically rolled in fear as he looked around the pool, but, to Steve’s surprise, he grasped Steve’s hand and held onto it tightly, frozen. “Don’t pull me in. Don’t even think about it.”

Expression softening, Steve said, “No. Of course not.”

Apparently unable to bear the anticipation, Tony scrambled into the pool, curling both hands around the back of Steve’s neck and plastering himself against Steve’s front. He exhaled sharply. “Okay. Okay. Okay, I’m okay—”

Curling an arm under his shoulders gently, Steve held onto him, assuring, “I got you.” Tony buried his face between his shoulder and throat. “I’m here.”

“Don’t move.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

Steve held very still for him, but he still said, “I can’t,” and bolted, nearly in a frenzy as his own panic kicked up splashing.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Steve assured, staying where he was, aware that it might not go over well if he tried to corral Tony. He did drift to the edge of the pool, looking over as Tony curled a towel around his shoulders and hugged himself. “You did great.”

Tony disappeared indoors. Steve let him before hurriedly drying off and following, sitting next to him on the couch, not caring that they’d gotten the floor wet.

Tony tipped his head against his shoulder and grunted, “Hate my goddamn—”

Curling an arm around him, Steve insisted gently, “S’okay.”

Tony exhaled. “How’d you do it?”

Steve thought about it for a moment. “I just . . . needed it. So I tried it.” Shrugging, he admitted, “Doesn’t always go over well. Even for me.”

“You’re you,” Tony grumbled. “Rest of us mortals are fucked.”

“No. Some things just take time.”

. o .

Steve looked over when he saw splashes in the water, staying where he was near the bottom of the pool, wondering if Tony knew he was there. He could easily hold his breath another four minutes—five, if he had to, six, if someone held a gun to his head—so he simply watched, curious, as Tony stood near the shallow end of the pool, before taking one step closer. And then another. And another.

Arms tucked behind his head, Steve watched him test out the waters, retreating completely in less than a minute, but God, his heart swelled with pride. He still waited, just another minute to be sure, before gently surfacing, not even breathing hard.

Sitting on a chair nearby, curled up in a towel but looking more pleased than shell-shocked, Tony asked conversationally, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to harsh your vibe.”

Shaking his head, Steve said, “No, it’s . . . I like that it’s quiet. Doesn’t matter what kind.”

Nodding absentmindedly, Tony said, “Quiet is underrated. Should take you to Antarctica. Heard it’s the quietest place on Earth.”

Even Steve gave a full-body shudder at that. He drifted towards the stairs, stepped out, and relaxed in the Malibu sun. “I don’t like the cold,” he said, open, honest. “Cold . . . it’s not my thing.”

“Your thing,” Tony mused. “But water’s fine?”

“I don’t remember drowning. I didn’t wake up with water in my lungs,” Steve said, shrugging, toweling off. “I remember . . . freezing. And . . . not being able to get out. And darkness.”

Tony said, “You never talk about it.”

“What’s there to say? I came, I saw, I conquered?”

Tony huffed. “No one knew if you were awake, for starters. I guess that answers that.”

“What, when I . . . .” Settling on the chair across from him, Steve shrugged. “I wasn’t. Not at first. I don’t remember hitting the ice. But I woke up.” Chewing on a loose nail, he added, “I wasn’t supposed to.” Letting it go, he mused, “Not the first time. Or the second. But . . . guess the serum had other plans for me, that day.” Picking at the nail again until Tony gently caught his arm, he sighed and said, “I don’t like to think about it. It comes back.”

“You’ve never talked about it?”

“Not really.” He shrugged. “The docs only ask certain questions. None of them asked if I was awake. Just . . . how I was adjustin’. Nobody wants to hear an old soldier’s story. Not really. Not unless he’s _Captain America_. So . . . I keep that story.” His fingers twitched, but he resisted the urge to pick his nails, or scratch his neck. Something. Anything other than focusing on the real problem. “I keep it because it’s mine.”

. o .

That night, he dreamed of the ice crystallizing in his lungs, freezing them solid, open, until it was very, very, very hard to breathe.

“Help,” he wheezed as his breath thickened in his lungs. “Help me.”

He awoke in darkness but not emptiness. Shaking hard, trying to get warm, he tried to get out of bed without disturbing it, but it was no use, and Tony hooked a hand in his shirt and dragged him back, close, barely even awake but _there_ , holding onto him. He didn’t even say anything, just held on as Steve shook so hard his teeth rattled. He did grumble, “Seventy-four, J.A.R.V.I.S.” and they’re stifling room became even more stifling. Then he rolled on top of Steve, his entire body a line of warmth from crown to heel, and fell asleep again, snoring against his shoulder.

He didn’t sleep again if he woke up fully, Steve knew, even though it was only three in the morning, caught a glimpse of the time, and he shivered and shivered and tried not to wake him, as the room warmed up a little more, and Tony’s own warmth sank into him, the arc reactor pressed up against his chest. It was metallic, borderline uncomfortable, but it was also a reminder that it was _Tony_ , a human blanket he knew by heart, and he curled both arms around him, holding on, and slowly, slowly settled back down into quiet.

Tony still caught a cold, but he blamed it on his own insomnia and wanting immune system, and not the middle-of-the-night interruptions that were becoming more common.

. o .

“Ugh, I love you so much,” Tony sniffed, huddled on the couch, accepting the decaf coffee Steve handed him before hunching back into his blanket huddle. Despite being congested as hell, he still managed to clip out with characteristic speed, “This is utter bullshit, by the way, it should be illegal to catch a respiratory—” he paused to cough, then rub his nose on a tissue, before finishing, “respiratory illness when it is _literally_ seventy-eight degrees outside, I have been a good boy, I do not deserve this.” He rubbed his chest, then grimaced and added, “Oh, God, my chest hurts so much. Please, end my misery.”

“Would hot washcloths help?” Steve asked, kneeling in front of him. “Cough drops?”

Shaking his head, Tony said, “No, I am simply . . . how do the kids say it? _Dying_.” He coughed again, looking so genuinely miserable it broke Steve’s heart, and angered him no small amount that he couldn’t simply assume Tony’s pain for his own. “Coughing is good for the humors, clears them right out.” Sipping his coffee, he added, “This is decaf, isn’t it?”

“You need _rest_ , Tony.”

Groaning, Tony said, “Oh, God, I am dying.” Then, sniffing, he asked, “I want a shower and a hug, not necessarily in that order.”

Expression softening, Steve leaned up and gathered him carefully in his arms, while Tony gripped his shirt with one hand. “I love you,” Tony sniffed.

“Love you,” Steve replied, kissing the top of his sweaty hair. “Wish you felt better.”

“Invincible Tony Stark,” Tony said against his chest. “Bested by nature.”

“Nothing bests you, Tony.”

“No? I can think of at least three things. One of them is,” shuddering, he said, “ _centipedes_. Just saying that is going to inhabit my fever-filled dreams, I hope you know.”

“Centipedes?” Steve asked. “What’s wrong with centi—”

Covering his mouth with his free hand, Tony said, “ _Quiet_. If you say their name three times, one will appear.”

“Mm.” Sliding onto the couch next to him and accepting Tony crawling into his arms, decaf coffee somehow perched in hand—it _was_ good coffee, even if it lacked the caffeine kick Tony wanted—Steve pressed, “What’re the other two?”

“Dentists and submarines.”

“Really?”

“Ever _seen_ the inside of a submarine?”

“Not really my area,” Steve said. “Army guy.”

“Exhaustingly,” Tony agreed, huddling under the blankets, sipping noisily at his drink before pausing to paw around blindly for a tissue. Steve pushed one into his hand. “Anyway—terrible. Just the worst.”

“Which one?”

“Mm?”

“Dentists or submarines?”

Shuddering, Tony said, “I’m going to have the worst nap of my _life_. Tortured by dentists on a submarine with cockroaches.”

“Centipedes,” Steve corrected. He laughed a little when Tony pinched his side. “Hey, watch the pincers.”

“ _Stop it_. Don’t put these things in my subconscious.”

“What’s wrong with the dentist?”

Peering out of the blankets, Tony asked him, “You have to ask? Teeth? Drills? Drills near teeth? That’s literally every horror movie since 1980.”

“Great teeth,” Steve shrugged. Tony squinted at him. “S’true. Guess all the liver I ate really worked.”

Tony gagged. “Don’t ever say those words in that sentence again.”

“You really appreciate the culinary wonders of—” He smiled behind Tony’s hand. “Bad experience?”

“Experiences. Plural. I hate dentists.” Grumbling, he set the coffee on the table, wrapped both arms around Steve’s middle, and plastered himself against him, only the top of his head visible again. Steve still smoothed his hair back, only for him to growl warningly. “No touchy. No touching zone.”

“How could I?” drawled Steve.

“Cold. What else?”

“Hm?”

“Not a fan of the Arctic. Two more slots.”

Steve considered for a moment. “Bear traps,” he offered plainly.

“No, that’s stupid.”

“Stupid?”

“That’s completely rational. Gimme something good.”

“I mean—”

“Spin again. Wait— _why_ bear—you know what? I don’t wanna know, my _centipede-dentist-submarine nightmare_ doesn’t need any booby traps.”

Steve really thought about it, wracking his brain for wartime terrors. Getting shot was certainly _lively_ , but he hadn’t shied from the possibility, and it didn’t exactly make his soul shiver. Torture was—well, it wasn’t something he’d had the misfortune to experience firsthand, but he certainly dreaded any number of horror stories told by the POWs. But: “Mustard gas,” he said, quiet but very sure.

Tony was quiet, too. “I was lookin’ more for _clowns_ ,” he said after a long beat. “Think anybody with two brain cells to rub together is scared of that, Cap.”

“Rockets,” Steve finished. A grenade was bad news, but one he stood a _chance_ against. Rockets? The hissing whistle of a launch was the scariest sound in his repertoire.

Squeezing him around the middle, Tony said hoarsely, “Remind me never to read your mind. If given the opportunity.”

Huffing, Steve squeezed him gently. “I can do that.” Then, tugging on him, he added, “Still want that shower?”

“Please,” Tony groaned, coughing into his arm. “Fuck. I hate colds. I hate my body and my body hates _me_.”

Tony’s body must not have hated him too terribly: it let him rest, curled up against Steve’s side in his— _their_ —bed. He twitched, kicking Steve’s shin in his sleep, but that was almost normal for him; there was the occasional below-the-belt knee that elicited more of a reaction, but he wasn’t too twitchy tonight, all things considered. Steve ran a hand down his back and Tony curled closer, always trying to burrow into him.

Tony didn’t take baths, ever—hadn’t even brought up the possibility—but he loved showers. It made sense: the guy kept a perfectly immaculate lab and living quarters. He was Tony Stark, master of overcoming his own vices to perform under pressure. He could work around hangovers and function nine-out-of-ten drunk (how _well_ was still questionable, but he could be the life of the party up until the bitter end of the line). 

Tony Stark wouldn’t compromise his own hygiene for fear of drowning. But the fact that he _enjoyed_ showers was nothing shy of a miracle to Steve, knowing what he’d been through. He knew guys who were tortured who never went near the thing that hurt ‘em. 

_Made of Iron_ , he thought.

. o .

When times were good, Steve spent less time meditating at the bottom of pools. For the most part, he simply didn’t _need_ to get away—there was plenty of empty space at the Malibu mansion Tony called home, and the weather was uncooperative enough that he’d be a fool to swim in a storm, even if it was a private pool and not the reckless ocean.

Still, confronting the reckless ocean again—the _wrong_ ocean, the West Coast ocean—was an experience. The crash of the waves was viscerally familiar, eerily resonating across his consciousness, a memory he hadn’t known he’d had. He hadn’t thought the sound of _waves_ would impact him in any way, but it was waves that drove him away from the shore, waves that haunted him, waves that made him shake nearly out of his skin.

Never even touched the water. The noise alone was drowning.

. o .

The noise alone was drowning. 

That was how he felt, listening to Tony breathe sometimes. He didn’t know how Tony could stand it, except that he had to. There was no option, no escape. Tony couldn’t duck under the water to get away from the noise; he was terrified of the deep water, and he couldn’t hold his breath that long. Steve did everything he could to alleviate the congestive rattle, subtle enough that it might have slipped under the radar of an ordinary person standing across the room, but he could hear it, and it was drowning.

He spent more time at the bottom of the pool, trying not to be present, and his mother’s wheezing death rattle filled his ears, driving him away from silence. He went to the ocean to listen to the waves, to be scared of something that broken inside him instead of outside him.

But it wasn’t _scary_ , not really. Not like losing Tony or his mother was scary. So he went near it, close enough to touch it, just to feel the cool water for himself.

He stood ankle-deep in the water until his feet were good and numb, waiting for panic to strike and drive him away, but it never came.

It was just oceanwater, and he wasn’t drowning.

Returning to the mansion, disturbed at the shift in his reality as much as the thought that he’d gone looking for something to scare him more than the terrors he couldn’t control, he asked Tony if he wanted a doctor, got the vehement rejection, and tried to find his place of calm.

. o .

Symptoms of tuberculosis: fever, night sweats, loss of appetite, fatigue, and above all, above damningly all—that chronic, incurable cough.

“Tony,” he begged, “we should go.”

Lying on the couch under a blanket, Tony simply grunted a no, informing him, “It’s fine. I’m tough.”

 _She was, too_ , he thought, hurting like hell and resisting every instinct in him that said, _Override, override._

The future was different, he promised himself, sitting on the floor nearby, hands shaking as he tried to focus on the book in his hands. The future was different.

. o .

_Ma. Tell me. Tell me what to do._

_Trust the process,_ his Ma said. _Trust God when you can’t trust anything else._

God didn’t live at the bottom of a pool, but neither did his mother, dead for eighty-three years. _I need him_ , he insisted. _I need him_.

He knew it was a selfish reason to beg for a person’s life, but the alternative was stifling, unimaginable.

. o .

Tony complained a lot, ate less, shivered constantly, and coughed wretchedly.

Steve white-knuckled the first ten days. But when Tony was still wheezing by the eleventh morning, he insisted, “We have to go.”

“ _We_ ,” Tony grumbled, glaring at him, red-eyed and sore and pissed off. “ _We_ , or _you?_ No. _We_ don’t have to do anything, and _I’m_ not going.”

“Tony,” he pleaded, trying to be reasonable but resolved. They had to. Tony wasn’t getting better, and if they waited any longer, and Tony _died_ —

“No—doctors,” Tony growled. “Swear to God, Rogers.”

“Tony,” he repeated. “It’s just—”

Fury blackened Tony’s eyes as he stood up, jabbed a finger against Steve’s sternum, and said, “Maybe for _you_ , but don’t you _dare_ —” Flattening his palm against Steve’s chest, he sucked in a breath, held in a vain effort to not cough, and tucked his face against his elbow when he failed. “No. I’m fine. It’s shitty, but living with _this_ ,” he yanked his shirt up, revealing the arc reactor, “ _that’s_ shitty. And you think I want some slimy fucking _Frankenstein_ near it?” Jerking his shirt down, he stalked off, insisting sternly, “ _I_ have to live with it. _You_ don’t. So, get the _fuck_ off my case, Rogers.”

. o .

“I’m not a doctor,” Bruce pleaded on-screen.

“Please,” Steve said. It was the hardest word in his vocabulary. He had a very strong feeling that Joseph Rogers had never been a man to beg.

Bruce sighed, removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, just . . . walk me through what’s going on.”

 _He’s dying._ Steve swallowed and did so. Neatly. Plain words. It still sounded bad, still got his heart racing badly, and when Bruce sighed, he nearly begged again. _Fix him_.

“So, in my _completely non-licensed opinion_ , it sounds like it could be pneumonia.”

“Pneumonia?” Steve repeated, jumping onto it.

“I’d take him to a real doc. Get him checked out.”

Steve set his jaw. “You’re sure?”

“ _No._ But . . .” Replacing his glasses, Bruce shrugged on the computer and said, “Honestly, the fact that he’s still running a fever says he needs to get tested for other infections, at least.” Other infections. _Tuberculosis_. The dread must have shown on his face, because Bruce did add hesitantly, “I mean, if I had to place money, it sounds like a chest cold that went wrong. Happens sometimes with—vulnerable populations. You know. The elderly, immunocompromised, people who have reduced lung capacity. COPD.”

Steve said, “Thanks, Bruce.”

“Hey, keep me posted,” Bruce advised. “If things get bad, I can fly out, I’m not on anything too urgent. Figured you two were just enjoying paradise. At . . . 4:41 AM.” Smirking, he added, “Guess not?”

Shaking his head, Steve just said again, “Thanks, Bruce.”

“Take care. Call me if you need me.”

Steve ended the call, then sucked in a breath. It was almost two in the morning, local—he couldn’t drag Tony off to the hospital. He couldn’t.

Tony wasn’t having the best night—it was plain to see from his face, scrunched up and flushed with fever, as he kicked and twitched, curled around a pillow. “Hey,” Steve hushed, approaching slowly and resting a hand on his hip, rubbing back and forth. “Hey, sweetheart. S’okay.” He kept rubbing and shushing as Tony’s noises escalated from the occasional grunt to muffled yelps and barely-there cries. “I gotcha. I gotcha,” he promised, sitting on the bed next to him.

Tony jerked awake, a cut-off noise that hitched almost into a sob. He quickly stifled it into the pillow, his breathing quick and uncomfortable, setting off a very painful-sounding coughing fit. Letting out a low, anguished cry, muffled by the pillow but still barely below a scream, he jerked like he would shove Steve away. But Steve just tucked more pillows near the headboard and got him propped up on them. Tony’s breathing was still so deep and desperate and painful-sounding.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Steve murmured. “I’m here.”

Finally, a hand reached for him instead of pushing at him, and he shuffled around so they were face-to-face—face-to-pillow, anyway—and let Tony grip his shirt, his side underneath it. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you,” he promised, a lie and a truth, all wrapped in one, his own hand so gentle on Tony’s side. 

Tony couldn’t really hurt him, even if he tried pretty hard, but Steve could hurt Tony without even trying. 

The fact that Steve could pry that damn reactor out of his chest with ease if he so wanted, and yet Tony, trembling and shaken and still not afraid to shuffle closer as he cast the pillow aside and found shelter near the hollow of Steve’s throat, trusted him not to, gutted Steve. He was so hot, so openly miserable, yet he trusted Steve to not worsen the misery. Trusted him to _help_.

God, it hurt.

“Okay, baby,” he whispered, making a promise to himself and Tony. “We’ll find a way.”

. o .

It turned out, a way materialized once Tony’s breathing acquired a distinctly wheezing edge.

Fear of doctors and hospitals and slimy Frankensteinian paws near his second heart couldn’t overpower the visceral fear of being unable to breathe.

Steve was scared shitless, borderline inconsolable, even though he kept up a perfect façade of outward calm, sitting beside him, listening to the heart rate monitor, trapped in a room full of tubes and wires but no straps, sitting as close to Tony as he could get without being on the bed, _adamant_.

He could only imagine how Tony felt, trapped inside his own _I-can’t-breathe_ body, making a lot of noise behind the breathing mask.

. o .

_Ma_. Tears streamed down his face, trying to breathe through lungs that weren’t working. _Ma_.

 _S’okay, lamb_ , his Ma assured, seating him upright and promising, _this, too, shall pass_.

. o .

Hours. Hours. Hours.

Tony drifted in and out, too anxious to sleep for more than minutes at a time, jerking away and turning to hide in Steve’s chest, as Steve folded over him, protecting him from nobody.

He menaced every person that came into the room. Kept them at arm’s reach, made them justify their reason for being there, inconvenienced them with questions. He knew they dreaded stepping into their room—the door opened very slowly, and introductions were given in a tone of voice reserved for calming unbroken stallions.

He didn’t care. He was the biggest, meanest stallion they’d ever encountered, chin tucked over Tony’s head and absorbing every word like a sponge, bless perfect recall, bless his ability to learn on the spot as he did his very best to not impede their care, only their proximity. _Don’t get near him. Don’t touch him. Unless you have to. Unless you have to_.

Tony slept on and off. He didn’t even consider it, wide awake, battle-ready, almost eager every time the door opened to knock heads with the most experienced members of their staff. They needed access to his chest to listen to his lungs, but he was there to enforce the line and guarantee swift and extremely violent repercussions if anyone so much as twitched towards that blue heart. They were all very gentle, kind souls who were weary but honored to treat their heroes.

Honored. To treat their heroes. 

Steve just wanted Tony well again, well and alive and _oh, God, he can’t die_.

. o .

It was pneumonia.

Steve didn’t know whether to fall to his knees in gratitude or be terrified that it could still kill Tony. His body chose terrified, and he listened as they presented their argument for staying in the hospital. Tony needed supplemental oxygen—his levels were abysmal, his O2 saturation a mere eighty-four percent, and it would only hurt his recovery if he couldn’t _breathe_ —and he needed antibiotics, which could be delivered intravenously. He would also need plenty of fluids, which he could not drink if he was too busy wheezing and coughing and struggling for breath.

But Stark Tower had a medical bay. Steve knew it. And a quick conversation with Bruce confirmed that it had basic care equipment, like IV kits and supplementary oxygen. They could handle that. They _could_.

Except Tony was not fit to fly. Even a drive was not recommended—surely, he would end up in a hospital less than halfway through the journey. No—he needed help right there, right _then_.

So Steve asked Bruce for a favor. It was a lot to ask at 5:49 AM, but Bruce was a night owl, and Clint was up and willing to help, too. And God bless his family. They got into gear. With Natasha reaching out to S.H.I.E.L.D. to secure a small handful of medical staff, they made magic happen. Such was the sway that Tony Stark had in their lives—they did not simply drop everything but move mountains to help when his life was at risk, and his sanity, too.

Twelve hours after being admitted, they were finally discharged. They could have left three hours sooner, plan in motion, but with no one at home to help and no equipment to use, it would have been a painful interval. Steve forced himself to be patient, waiting for the call from Clint. He had to resist the urge to unclip Tony and bolt from the room the moment he got it.

It was odd, how small and huge the mansion seemed, with seven extra people in it. Not only had Clint and Bruce flown in with the two assistants and one doctor that had agreed to stick around, they had also brought Colonel Rhodes, who claimed to know Tony personally, and a man named Happy Hogan, who nearly tore Steve’s head off for mishandling the situation. Too numb with premature grief to care, Steve let the man explain where he had gone wrong, why he should have called them all days ago, harangue him endlessly even as he bolted to and fro and the minutest gestures from Tony to fetch things, phones and blankets and, seemingly just for fun, an orange, which Tony chucked warningly back at him, a rebuke.

Colonel Rhodes orchestrated the entire affair, maneuvering effortlessly around the extremely Unhappy Hogan and directing the medical staff, even checking in with Clint and Bruce, who seemed relieved to have done the most that they could do with more experienced staff on hand.

For his part, Steve stayed close, low, and dangerous, ready to break the hand of the first person to imply harm. The assistants were absolutely terrified of him, but the doctor worked clean around him, like he wasn’t capable of breaking her arm faster than she could introduce her entire name. _Dr. Helen Cho. You must be Steve Rogers_.

It was suddenly early evening and everything was in order. Clint reluctantly bid his late goodbyes—he would be flying out solo for a redeye back to New York; _duty calls_ —and two of the three medical staff took up residence in guest rooms. Steve’s hackles rose as Unhappy Hogan said sternly, “I don’t want any funny business, not one bit of it, you will treat him with _respect_ and _care_ —”

“Hogan,” Colonel Rhodes said, steering Hogan to a chair. “I think he’s good.”

“This isn’t a joke,” Hogan insisted. “This is Mr. Stark’s life we’re playing around with—”

Steve saw red. A tug on his sleeve kept him from getting up, picking Hogan up, and holding him against a wall until he squealed.

Shifting the oxygen mask aside, grudgingly but compromisingly seated in a wheelchair for portability’s sake, Tony rasped, “Enough.”

Everyone fell quiet. Even the medical assistant, who checked on the IV pole, checked on the oxygen monitor, made sure that Tony was as comfortable as he could be. 

_End-of-life care. It’s the best we can do_.

Steve jerked spasmodically away, and Colonel Rhodes said, “Easy there, Cap.”

He couldn’t speak to them. He couldn’t—he—

He shoved the door open, and it was cool and nighttime, but God, he needed it to be quiet, so badly. He needed the whole world to just _shut up_ for a minute.

He cut into the water easily, and it was perfect, stormy, terrible, endless, consuming darkness.

. o .

“Goddamn, he tryin’ to drown himself in the pool or something? I knew about swooning hearts, but this is—”

“Go back inside.”

“What?” Unhappy Hogan seemed incredulous. “You can’t tell me this is normal behavior, this is neurotic and dangerous and—”

“Go back inside. _Now_ ,” Colonel Rhodes ordered.

The door slid shut behind him.

“C’mon, Cap. Don’t know what’s going on, but—” Rhodes compressed both hands over his chest, hard, and Steve’s body jerked into motion again, heaving in a breath. Instantly, the pressure vanished, and he heard Rhodes sigh, sitting back on his heels. “All right. Take it easy.”

Steve gasped, breath harsh in his chest, jerky, stuttering, struggling to sit upright. He planted a hand on wet concrete. Colonel Rhodes’ shirt and pants were soaked. Just like his own. _Goddamn_ , he thought, head throbbing. How long had he been under? “Long?” he rasped, turning and breathing harshly, too fast, too fast, only getting faster, oh, God, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t—

“Stay with me, Cap,” Rhodes ordered, planting a hand on his shoulder. “Breathe in, count to four, breathe out. Do it slowly.”

He was cold, and soaking wet, and it was nighttime, but he followed the man’s orders, sucking down a heaving breath, then forcing himself to hold it— _four, four, four minutes?_ —until Rhodes thumped him on the back and ordered, “Four seconds, Cap.”

Seconds. Right. Nobody could hold their breath for four minutes. _Record-setters_. He tried again, shakier, shaking. _Four, four, four, four, four, four, four_ , he chanted in his head, exhaling raggedly, hoping it was long-and-short enough. Too long was bad. Too short was bad. He did it again, four-four-four-four, and thought he might’ve ever gotten it right. On the third cycle, he vomited a bucket’s worth of water, unexpected and awful, all over the patio.

Colonel Rhodes said, “Let’s go inside.”

Inside was warm. Inside was quiet. Everyone was gone. It was just the two of them in the main room—no Unhappy Hogan, no Clint-on-his-redeye-and-oh-hell-did-he-even-say- _goodbye?_ , no doctors, no doctors, no doctors, and—he sucked down a breath, spinning around, but Colonel Rhodes planted him, soaking wet and all, on a couch. He draped a blanket over him. _This is Tony’s,_ he wanted to say, clutching it. _This is Tony’s_.

Colonel Rhodes flopped down beside him, another blanket over his legs, and clicked on the TV. Steve had never wanted to enjoy modern television less, but it was rude to say, _Shut it off_ , so he watched, numb and disoriented, as Colonel Rhodes flipped through the channels, settling on one about houses. “Tony and I watch this,” he said, sounding amused, leaning back. “Too many commercials, but I like it.”

Steve couldn’t focus. He could breathe a little better, the heaviness in his chest and belly gone, the panic slowly, slowly subsiding. _What happened? What’s happening?_ Rhodes narrated, “It’s called PTSD. It means Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Disorder means it interrupts your life, makes itself known when you don’t want it there. Stress means it causes stress-related symptoms, sleeplessness, restlessness, anger, paranoia, depression, what you might’ve called shell-shock. Traumatic is what you think it is—something bad happened to you and your mind and body never figured out what they were supposed to do with it. Post just means this is the After. Any questions?”

Steve had lots of questions. His first surprised even him: “You’re a Colonel.”

“Yes, sir. Seen a lot of shit.”

“You ever—” He paused, didn’t know why the question wanted to be spoken: “You ever lost somebody, on the line?”

“Four times. It gutted me.” Flexing his feet, he muttered, “Miss my slippers. Stark always keeps his places so cold. The machines need it, but I need my slippers.” He got up, briefly, and returned without shoes and with another blanket it. “Wake up twice a week in a cold sweat. Can’t be in the middle of a crowded room for long before it starts to set my teeth on edge. You know that feeling, when you can hear a clock ticking? That’s what I get, when I am in a room of more than ten or so people. If I don’t know everybody’s names, I start to think one of them has a gun, or a grenade, or a bomb tucked away. I do not trust people anymore.”

Steve felt a tightness in his throat and a heaviness in his belly. He worried, suddenly and with real urgency, that he would throw up again. He swallowed it down. “How’d they—”

“Two were bombed out. One was shot, right here.” He pointed at his throat. Steve stared, imagined the bullet opening up a visceral red wound. “One was crushed. He had eight seconds to get out of that hole. He took too long.” Flexing his feet under the blanket, Rhodes said, “If I smell that chalk, I have to cut loose in ten seconds or I start to crumble. And I don’t care for red paint. Too much like blood.” Looking right at him, he said, “I don’t like fireworks. I imagine that’s pretty universal.”

He seemed so very calm, speaking about it all. Steve could not even form the words to say, _Saw a guy with an eye hanging out of its socket, once. Part of his face just—gone. Don’t know what happened. He begged me to kill him. I didn’t know what to do. So turned around he stumbled off and got himself shot. Didn’t kill him right away. He cried in the dirt for two minutes. I could not shoot a friendly. I am going to hell._

He didn’t even know if there was a heaven or hell to believe in or a God at either station, but he knew that he was wrong for that, and the heaviness in his stomach became bile in his throat, and he bolted, vomiting into the bin. It went on, and on, and on. He could still hear the kid, twenty-something years old, younger than he was, sobbing and wailing and begging him to die, like he was his father sent to kill his own son, because he was a commanding officer who had to put the wounded out of their misery.

 _I was not made to kill. I was made to protect_.

A cold cloth appeared on the back of his neck. He jerked, but his grip on the bin was hard enough that it didn’t dislodge. Rhodes said, “I don’t know what it was like on the Front, but I know what it was like, in Afghanistan. Tony and I went to school together, but then we forked different ways for a while. He became a traveling salesman, and I became a soldier. We both had stories. Everybody’s got a story. Can’t imagine yours.”

 _Please_ , Steve thought desperately, as the kid cried and cried in his memory. _Please do it. I can’t. I can’t._ He had plenty of ammo in his gun and no courage. None. Didn’t even lift it. Didn’t even try.

“We’re all working on our demons,” Rhodes said. “You, more than most. Him, too. I spent three months looking for him, and there’s not a month that goes by I wish I wasn’t there on that Jeep with him. I know they would’ve killed me in a heartbeat. I do know that. But it’s not like that. You want more than you can have.”

Spitting into the bin, swallowing words and anguished pleas, Steve straightened, removing the cloth from his neck. He set it limply on the counter. Rhodes steered him to a cheer, pushed a glass of water in front of him. He looked very put together for a man without shoes and soaking wet. Steve could only imagine what he himself looked like, hunched over the water, shaking.

“Lean on people,” advised Rhodes, making him look up, doleful and hopeful, like it was that simple. “Find your way through. And know that it passes. Sometimes, you just gotta breathe, then hold it for four seconds, and let it go.” Curling his fingers around the glass, Steve held it tightly. “Easy. Don’t break it.” He loosened it obligingly. The glass stopped shaking quite so hard. “Been going through a lot, haven’t you?”

Steve said nothing, just stared down at the glass, at his pale hand, wondering if he’d even eaten in days, if he’d had a single thought that wasn’t _Tony is going to die_ in days. Just the thought made his throat tight and eyes burn. He hated it more than anything. _He is not going to die. He is not. They said so._

The doctors would be wrong. Squeezing his eyes shut, squeezing the glass, he barely avoided breaking it as he gasped and released it.

Rhodes insisted, gently but with adamance in his voice: “Drink. It’ll help.”

Steve chugged water like a dying man. “Not so fast,” Rhodes warned, but he topped off the glass for him, again with lukewarm water—and Steve thought, in a twisted, awful, relieved way, _He knew, he knew_ —and slugged it down, only to hack it back up instantly. “See,” Rhodes chastised. “I’m telling you. Slow down.”

He tried to, but he was desperate, desperate enough to repeat it, gulping hard to keep the water down, down, down. Rhodes was watching him unreadably. Or maybe he had just lost the ability to read people, no longer able to process emotion. That wouldn’t surprise him at all; he felt dead to emotion, dead to it all. “Have you eaten?” Rhodes asked.

Steve buried his head in both hands, equal parts ashamed that he couldn’t stick to a goddamn schedule and devastated that the answer was no.

Rhodes paced away, futzing around for a few seconds, messing with drawers, then chucked an entire pack of saltines in front of him. “Start there,” he advised. “ _Slowly._ ”

Steve tore the pack down the middle, suddenly, unfathomably hungry, almost blind with it. He still ate slowly, as prescribed, but his stomach hurt badly, and he worried he’d throw up again, worried he’d lose his mind if the crackers were taken away from him, just then. It was a visceral memory, but strangely, it wasn’t a bad one—it was one of the few good ones left, of peeling open a tin can and finding _food_ , crackers and bad coffee and cheese, candy and meat and oh, God, oh, God, he was so hungry.

He was so _happy_ , he had food, and he ate the entire pack as slowly as he dared, and it was still gone in seconds.

Rhodes sighed. “Sit tight, okay?”

Steve watched him without seeing him, like a movie he was about to fall asleep through, as Colonel Rhodes disappeared down the hall. He wondered, briefly and horribly, if he’d imagined it all, if he was going crazy, but there were crumbs on the counter and he picked at them, and he was still sopping wet.

“Hey, Cap,” Bruce Banner greeted, stepping tentatively into view, wringing his hands. “You, uh—the Colonel said you could use a friend.”

Steve stared at him, unblinking. Bruce flinched, but he still stepped into the kitchen area, fearless, acclimated, informing, “He’s sleeping right now. In case you were wondering. O2’s pretty good, up to eighty-seven. I mean, it’s just gonna be low, with his lungs, but ninety would be better. Ninety-five is what we’re aiming for.” For not-a-doctor, he spoke like one. “Uh. I could make . . . eggs?” he offered, observing the demolition on the counting. “Eggs are good. Or toast. Actually, toast is probably better,” he said, turning away, puttering around, already in his own world. “It’s midnight back home, so toast and eggs sound great, actually. Where does Tony keep his stuff?”

He discovered it all on his own, but Steve still pushed away from the counter and almost unconsciously produced supplies, eliciting tame, “Thanks” and “I just need one of these,” as he held up the whole packet of butter. “Breakfast food tastes better after midnight,” he said, conversational.

“Thanks for coming.” It was the long overdue _goodbye_ , and his chest felt tight even saying it, but Bruce’s casual:

“Oh, sure. Thanks for the heads-up. I was able to pack my hand sanitizer.” He scrambled the eggs.

“Hand sanitizer?” Steve repeated, uncomprehendingly.

Bruce actually paused, then resumed scrambling eggs. “Soap without water. Kills germs. You just put it on your hands and rub.”

“Is it . . . better than soap?”

“No. Just nice, if you don’t have water. California has a water shortage, so it feels good, in my heart.” He popped toast into the toaster.

“It does?” Steve felt like he was living in a dream.

Bruce Banner nodded and talked about the California water shortage, words drifting over him as he piled toast and eggs onto a place, emptying an entire carton. They ate at intervals, clearing a pair of plates before Bruce decided plainly, “I could go for another round.”

He even poured out pancake mix, and Steve almost said, _I’m not that hungry_ , but he was ravenous, devouring half a box worth before throwing in the towel. “Pancakes taste better after midnight,” Bruce announced, picking over the last ones placidly.

“You said that,” Steve reminded him, cleaning up, carefully, meticulously, making sure it all was orderly again.

“Did I?” Taking another big bite, Bruce added, “It’s true. Always eat your best meal after midnight.”

“Usually in bed by now.” Exhaustion weighed on him, like a pile of bricks on his shoulders. Yet he felt the restlessness, too, the—

 _Sleeplessness, anger, paranoia, depression_.

Gosh, they had a lot of words for one phrase.

And it was such a broken phrase, for broken people—shell-shock had been for people who couldn’t _handle_ war, like it was somehow transmitted from generation to generation how to watch people die and walk away clean. You were a bad person if you got shocked. And you were never going back to any kind of normal.

It was gutting, and hopeful, to see someone like Colonel Rhodes call its baby brother a new name, and speak about it calmly, like it was . . . it was something he could _wrangle_. Maybe. Hopefully.

By God, hopefully.

“I’m gonna hit the hay,” Bruce agreed. “Figured I’d take the couch. Free TV,” he added with a wink. “Night, Cap.”

“I’m gonna . . . .” Looking around the room, Steve said quietly, “Just . . . make sure everything’s all right.”

. o .

“We got off on the wrong foot.”

“S’okay,” Steve said, tired and somewhat apologetic. A sleeping bag in the basement; that was what Happy Hogan had been reduced to, and yet, for a grown man sleeping on a concrete floor with only a sleeping mat and bag between them, he made no complaint about it. “Just checkin’ in.”

“He’s a good person. Bad things can happen to good people, especially when they aren’t prepared to go to war. Who knows what would happen, if you don’t have a tough guy around to lay down the law.”

Looking at Happy Hogan, Steve thought, _Think I don’t know that? Live it? Breathe it?_ But his emotions were all tapped out. He could only muster a, “Yeah.” Then, flicking out the light for him, leaving only the ambient navigational lighting, he added, “Goodnight.”

“Night, Cap.”

Everyone called him that. It was a good play on words, he supposed, ascending the stairs.

. o .

The mansion felt huge with two people, but almost small with eight. True to his word, Bruce was still tapping away on his laptop on the couch, although he was rubbing his eyes behind his glasses periodically. With three guest bedrooms, one door was partially open, and Steve could just make out the bags that the medical staff had brought along and surmised that it was the assistants’ room. Another was firmly shut—Colonel Rhodes’. The third bedroom was dark but the door was half-open, and he surmised it was Doctor Cho’s.

Feeling very strange, indeed, at having so many people in his home, he stepped into Tony’s bedroom, where Tony was propped up and snoring peacefully behind the mask, carefully situated so nothing would tangle or break loose. In a chair, one of the two medical assistants sat reading a book, looking up when Steve entered and standing, shutting his book and gesturing briefly to the hallway. “We’ll be on call,” he informed, speaking very quietly but still too loud, any vocalization making Steve wince. “Just knock if you need anything. Come morning, we’ll evaluate again. Get some sleep, Captain.”

He departed, slipping through the partially-open door halfway down the hall.

Heart aching anew but gratified that Tony was sleeping easy enough—there even seemed to be less blotchy paleness in his face, more color beyond the feverish flush, although the dappling of sweat was easily visible—Steve checked the room three times for anything out of the ordinary. He changed into a pair of comfortable pajamas before doing one final check of the hallway for good measure, listening intently outside each room for the correct number of occupants.

Satisfied, he returned to Tony’s side. He sat next to him on the headboard, bone-deep tired and wide-awake, sure he would not be able to sleep at all, certain he did not want to with Tony in need. He looked over, blinking slowly as he checked their work, checked their work, _he’s okay, he’s okay_ , his raspy breathing was still awful but the quality was different behind the mask and . . . and . . . it had to be enough. Right?

He fell asleep, only to jerk awake, three minutes later, reaching out and aborting a grab for Tony, not wanting to disturb him. Shaking his head, he shifted to the chair instead, looking at him and vowing silently, _I’ll keep you safe_.

. o .

Four days of antibiotics, fluids, scarcely-interrupted bedrest later, Tony was getting better. After two days of miserable, barely-broken silence, he was back to complaining about being an invalid, snarling over mentions of a wheelchair, and demanding any sort of meal that wasn’t soup, since they wouldn’t let him go downstairs. _Better than being in the hospital_ , nobody needed to say. His fever came down as his body, supplemented by antibiotics, slowly won the fight. His spirits improved daily, even though his energy levels remained woefully depleted.

His mind was back, too, as he vowed to install an elevator— _honestly, the possibilities are limitless_ —and tolerated his exile, allowing that being in the hospital would be worse. But by day five, improving and able to walk short distances without crumpling in absolute misery, he absolutely insisted on a modicum of freedom. He became testier about concessions, arguing about everything from the IV— _look, I can drink, see_ —to the antibiotics it was delivering. 

_This puppy radiates bacteria_ , he lied, tapping the reactor, willing to outright _lie_ to get what he wanted. Nobody bought it, but he still argued around coughing fits and miserable catnaps. 

Finally, at wit’s end and without much in the way of explanation, he evicted any house guests who weren’t named _Steve_ , and that pretty neatly organized several problems at once.

Lounging on the couch, Tony said, “Never again,” and shuddered, not in fear but disgust, rubbing his arm and adding, “I hate people. I never want to see a person again. You’re the only exception.” Slipping deeper into the cushions, he grumbled, “I am sick of being _sick_.”

Steve simply walked around the entire mansion, checking the rooms for nonexistent occupants, feeling weirdly unsettled at the sudden silence. A whistle drew his attention, and he practically skidded to a halt beside Tony, who held up both hands in a universal, _Down, boy_. “You good?”

Steve frowned. “Why wouldn’t I be?” _I’m not the one who almost died_. Sitting on the floor in front of the couch, he looked around and added, “Just . . . quiet. Again.” The word was weird. Ugly. _Quiet_.

He stuffed his hands under his legs, resisting the urge to get up and take a dip in the pool, see if that wouldn’t feel more _normal_.

 _Rhodes won’t fish you out this time_.

He thought, _Is that a bad thing?_ and asked Tony, “Need anything?”

“Come here. Haven’t cuddled my boyfriend in days.”

“You’re sick,” Steve reminded.

Tony let out an exasperated noise. “As I have been reminded _many_ times.” Then, flopping onto the floor next to him, he buried his face against Steve’s shoulder. “Relax, I don’t have cooties. Not that I’m gonna give you.”

Steve was stiff, unmoving, hands still pinned under his thighs. Tony grumbled, “What’s gotten into you?”

Steve said, “Just . . .” Shaking his head a little, he replied, “Off.”

“Join the club,” Tony sighed. He slouched a little, then ducked to cough into his own sleeve, that horrible, nails-on-chalkboard wheeze that shoved Steve to his feet faster than a gunshot. “All right, I do have cooties. I’m sorry.”

 _It’s not you. It’s me_. Steve didn’t answer, pacing away, feeling like he’d break the windows if he didn’t slide the door open, let in the fresh air. He breathed, _count to four, breathe out, slowly._

Tony said carefully, “I confess I’m lost.”

 _It’s not you. It’s me_.

Swallowing, Steve slid the door shut. _Stop it. Don’t act crazy_. God, he was doing it again. _Get a grip_. He let go of the door. He turned away from it.

_I wanna go home. I wanna get outta here. I wanna . . . ._

He said, “I’m just tired.”

Tony looked at him, far too knowledgeably. “Not a mind-reader, champ,” he reminded, leveraging himself back onto the couch and asking carefully, “So, what’s on the mind? Or is it twenty questions?”

 _I’m just tired_.

It was like a mantra, the only three words that lived in his head as he forced himself to step away from the door, from the freedoms it falsely promised.

_Ma’s dead. You can’t go back._

_You’re crazy. Tell him_.

He sat on a separate chair mutely. Tony coughed, and he punched holes in the upholstery with his grip. His heart was _pounding_. He was terrified what would happen if he heard the sound again.

_I can’t. I can’t._

He stood up, releasing the broken chair. “I have to go.”

Tony arched both eyebrows but waved a hand, half-lackadaisical, half-exhausted. _People-tired. Nobody but you._

 _I’m nobody. I can’t be somebody_.

He stepped out the front door, walked down the drive, and picked a cardinal direction.

He started walking.

. o .

It only occurred to him, about two hours into his sojourn, that leaving Tony alone was a really fucking stupid idea.

He sprinted home and nearly ripped down the door, nightmare scenarios conjuring themselves in his mind’s eye. Tony snoring on the couch, perfectly unharmed, was not in his repertoire. He didn’t know what to _do_ with it. _Everything’s okay. He’s okay._

 _He’s not gonna die. It was a lie_.

It wasn’t—not a lie, just a truth that was never actualized.

The door clicked noisily shut behind him, and Tony jerked, sitting up frantically, setting off a coughing fit. Steve swept across the room, wrapping both arms around him as he tried to figure out, _What the hell?_ and _Who’s there?_ at the same moment. He relaxed into Steve’s hold, blowing out a breath and curling his own hands into the back of Steve’s shirt.

“Came home,” Tony sighed.

“Where else am I gonna go?” Steve asked, soft but absolutely sincere.

. o .

Trusting Tony to get better was terrifying.

_What if he doesn’t get better?_

No amount of sitting in quiet could change the possibility that Tony wouldn’t. But he _was_ getting better. The doctors were confident he would improve. He _was_ improving. He was getting stronger. He was going to pull through.

But there was a coward inside him that was still inevitably, bitterly afraid: _I can’t wake up, and you’re gone_.

Tony snored into his chest. Midnight passed. Seven days sleepless, he thought, resisting the urge to shimmy out of his hold and check the house again. Make sure he’d locked everything, make sure everything was in order. That Tony _would_ get better.

He could stay awake. He’d gone two weeks without sleep. He could hold his breath for thirteen minutes. He could stay awake for as long as he needed to.

Squirming, more restless than tired, he tried to stay still for Tony’s sake, and found himself outside, looking at dark water, telling himself it wouldn’t help. He kicked off socks and shoes, rolled up his pants to his knees, and dipped his legs into the water. It was cool at night. He shuddered. It would be a very, very bad idea to get in the water. He knew that. He knew it wasn’t chasing peace.

 _This is just insanity_.

He gripped the ledge tightly. He sat, legs soaked to his calves, wondering why he kept coming back to it.

 _I’m not scared of you_ , he thought. _I don’t love you. So why can’t I move on?_

There was no comforting memory to offer a piece of advice. It was simply quiet, in a bad way, sitting with him until he shivered, retreating, noiseless and defeated.

Tony didn’t wake. He was tired. Steve was, too. But he couldn’t sleep anymore.

. o .

At the Tower, there was a gymnasium with punching bags. They helped. In a certain mood, Steve just couldn’t hit _people_. One-hit-wonder took on a new meaning when one could dent steel walls with a single blow, and there was no way he could safely duel when he was in a bad state of mind. But he _could_ beat the ever-loving shit out of punching bags, and nobody would get hurt. If they came off the chain, he could put a new one up. It was expensive, but it was better than the alternative.

There weren’t any punching bags at Tony’s Malibu estate. It was a mansion, with plenty of recreation-style rooms, guest rooms, studies and dining areas, and two separate labs to die for, but there was no _gym_. Not like Steve wanted. There was a little gym with all the standard equipment and a hell of a view, but nowhere with _room_ , where he could just cut loose. And there were no punching bags.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to tear his hair out.

He wanted to sleep, and was one phone call away from asking Fury about that science experiment, that, _You hacked the serum. You figured it out_. But he was disgusted at himself for even considering such a last-resort option. It wasn’t a very promising alternative to good old-fashioned muscling through it.

So he found a couch in the sun in a quiet corner, lied down, and shut his eyes, determined to at least stop inputting new visuals for a short time.

He came to, absolutely convinced Tony was dead, heaving for breath as he rushed towards the main gathering floor, jerking his head around and, when he spotted Tony casually sketching a suit on his tablet and nibbling on berries, actually snapped at him, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Um, eating,” Tony said around a mouthful of blueberry, spinning the suit around to focus on the back. “Also, stabilizers, what’s it to you?”

“You should be _resting_ ,” Steve said, swiping the tablet from him. Tony growled.

“I am a _grown_ adult, I do not _need_ a babysitter. God, a guy can’t get five minutes alone around here.”

Indignant that he was right and furious at his flippant attitude, Steve snapped, “You could’ve died, Tony! Don’t you get that?”

Popping another blueberry in his mouth, Tony drawled, “Enlighten me again, I had no idea.” He visibly stifled a cough, adding thinly, “Honestly, you look worse than I do. Maybe do some personal work before you go around _pot-kettling_ , huh?”

“Could’ve _died_ , Tony,” Steve repeated, needing him to _understand_. He swiped the blueberries, and Tony snapped.

“Fuck you! I have been living with this for _how_ many years? I have died _how_ many times?”

“It’s not _like that_ ,” Steve snapped. “Just because you survive all those years—”

“I’m not gonna drop dead at the first cold!” Tony shouted, dissolving into a flustered fit of coughing. He sputtered through it, “God—dammit, you’d think—you’d never seen a guy with a car battery in his chest, huh?” He snatched the bowl of blueberries from Steve’s grip, then seethed, “Get out.”

Thunderstruck, Steve said, “What?”

“You heard me. _Get out_.”

Steve stared at him a moment longer. His ears were ringing loudly. Panic was nauseatingly near the surface. _No. No, no, no._ “Tony. . . .”

“Get _out_!” Tony roared. “Now!”

Setting the tablet on the counter, Steve swallowed, but he couldn’t, lungs frozen. _No. Don’t leave him. Don’t do this. Don’t do this._ He stepped back, but Tony just seethed, “I am _not_ asking again, Steve.”

 _Steve. Steve._ Somehow, that was good. That was good. That was good.

He couldn’t leave. He shouldn’t leave.

He couldn’t, shouldn’t—

Utterly lost, he sat on the driveway, beseeching the universe, _What do I do?_

Devastatingly, it was Jarvis, over the speaker, announcing in an apologetic tone, “Master Stark has requested that you fully vacate the premises, Captain. I am sorry about the inconvenience.”

Inconvenience. He pushed himself shakily to his feet. No, it wasn’t an inconvenience, it was a goddamn _death sentence_.

 _I’m killing him_. Each step he took was a resounding, terrible blow. A permanent, unfixable error.

 _I’m the reason he dies_.

When he reached the end of the drive, he kept walking, and this time, he did not come back.

. o .

“Cap?” Sitting on his chair in the Tower’s main balcony room, Bruce looked up, stunned. “Tony shouldn’t fly—”

“He’s not here.” They were the hardest words he’d ever said. He’d delivered a lot of bad news, but somehow, those three words—vocalizing them took more from him than he had to give, and he simply limped out of the room, weaving with exhaustion. _Shape up. Pot, kettle_.

It didn’t matter. He was messed up. He was—he _ran_. Home. He flew, first flight he could find, and it was expensive but everything was expensive, why bat an eyelash at it, anymore? It didn’t matter.

He found his room, untidy, less neat than he expected it to be. He thought, in a moment of rampant paranoia, that maybe someone had been through it, looked through it. He found his stash underneath a floorboard, the handful of keepsakes on his uniform that had survived the plane crash. Untouched—still the same compass and pack of cigarettes and piece of seventy-year-old chewing gum.

He shut the floorboard. He scoured the room, made sure it was all in order, disorderly as everything had become.

He went out to the balcony, on autopilot. And he stood there, soaking in the city noise, the white lights, the familiarity of home, and he felt— _nothing_.

Agony burned through him, but it was painless, emotionless. It meant nothing to him. There was no tether here, no line to grasp. His whole world had narrowed, compressed again.

 _I’m drowning him_.

The door slid back. He didn’t look to see who it was, or he might have been more startled when Iron Man showed up next to him. He even thought it might be a dream, but the metal was warm, humming with life and weight, as it crowded close and hugged him, far too human to be fully autonomous, arms tucking under his own and pulling him close.

His throat was so tight he could barely breathe. He shook, holding it back.

From the helmet issued a painstakingly familiar voice, metallic but utterly human underneath: “Sometimes I forget the power of a hug.” Then, almost like he couldn’t help it, he added, “This looks super weird from my end, I’m literally just hugging thin air, but I can—I can feel you.” The arms compressed inward, an imitation of a gentle squeeze. “Right here. And I’m sorry. I’ve been a class-A—”

“No,” Steve cut in, holding onto him, desperate for the contact to last, no matter if it was real or fake. “No, it’s—Tony . . . I’m not right. There’s parts of me, that’re just . . . they’re broken. And I don’t know what to do about them.”

“Well,” Tony encouraged, so gently, and then there was a quiet blur, and Steve ached with the palpable silence, even though Iron Man continued to hold him, because he knew Tony was _away_. “Rome wasn’t built in a day. You lay bricks. You work at it. Even when it’s really hard. Really, really hard.” With a sigh, he released Steve, stepping back and looking around leaning gratefully into the railing. “Ah. That’s better.”

Aching, Steve said, “You shouldn’t be—”

“Ah-ah-ah. I know it comes from a place of love,” Tony said, holding up a metal hand. “I do. But. Please, Steve. Cut me some slack, I need a little breathing room, too.”

Softening in understand, Steve said simply, “Okay.”

It was strange to see Iron Man express _floored_ , but that was Tony’s emotion as he said, “Wow, really? I mean—” straightening, he leaned into Steve again, this time _leaning_ into Steve, but Steve took his weight, _I give, you take; I take, you give_ —“really expectin’ a bigger fight on that one, had a whole speech and everything—”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. But—” Wrapping metal arms around him, Tony went on, “ _But_ , I do have a semi-crazy idea, if you’re into that sort of kinky shit.”

“Try me.”

“That’s my man. Okay, so—option A, I come _there_ , which—”

“Not the best idea,” Steve agreed immediately.

“Right.” Nodding, Iron Man conveyed, “Option B, you get back on a plane and fly home. Sorry, big fella, but at least you can sleep on the ride over.”

“I’m sensing a third option.”

“Always knew you were smart and pretty. Option C, you can drive my car. Just try not to wreck it, I will put it on full auto so you can’t, but this guy has ninety hours of flight time juiced up, which is plenty for a cross-country flight.”

Staring at white-blue eyes, Steve said, “You’d let— _me_ wear—”

“The suit, yes. Once-in-a—honestly, let’s be real, it’s approaching one of _my_ kinks to see you in red-and-gold. Just get in the suit, J. will take care of the rest. Unless you wanna kiss Banner goodnight.”

“Is it . . . .” Steve looked at the suit again, then shook his head, indicating simply, “How?”

Tony acknowledged, “Fair warning, this kind of ruins the magic, but you’ve already seen the components, _so_.” Then the suit hissed open from the back, and from the empty helmet, Tony offered, “Okay, just step up.”

Steve hesitated. “You sure?”

“Steve. Honey. I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t sure. Besides, you got your hug, I want mine.”

Carefully, Steve stepped up. “This is crazy,” he acknowledged, breathing very fast as the armor suddenly closed in. “And close.”

“Yeah, well, good news is, you got the best copilot in the whole world,” Tony said, sounding much more like himself, clearer than a phone call. “Hi, babe. J. says you’re kind of freaking out, are you kind of freaking out? Listen, this is not only safer than—”

“I’m fine,” Steve said, stock still.

Tony encouraged, “You trust me. Right? Trust him.” _Trust Iron Man_.

It was silly, but it . . . kind of worked. He looked down at metal hands, at the strong metal exoskeleton cocooning him, and thought, _I’m completely safe_. “Just impressed you. You do this,” he acknowledged.

“I crush this,” Tony said. “J. says we’re approaching launch conditions, I’m thinking baby steps first, unless you just wanna throw caution to the wind and see what happens?”

“Baby steps,” Steve said immediately.

“Frankly kinda pissed I’m not seein’ this in person, but I suppose security footage is the next best thing. All right, let’s try three inches off the ground, just a _taste_ of it, if you absolutely hate it, no-harm-no-foul, nobody gets hurt, billion dollar suit doesn’t get super-soldier shredded. On my mark, in five-four-three-two-one, liftoff.”

Obligingly, the suit rose, but it wasn’t the strong repulsive force Steve expected—it was the gentlest little rise, and he was surprised at how little he did rise off the ground, acknowledging, “That it?”

“Fine, we’ll try twelve inches, Gratitude Personified.” Steve rose without warning, but the panic didn’t come.

“This is beautiful,” he told Tony.

“Wanna try six feet? Standing height, that won’t even hurt if you break loose.”

“Go for it. Count it down.”

“In five-four-three-two-one, liftoff,” Tony obliged him, and this time he did rise with a bit more boost, surging up to the requisite height and skimming to a halt. Now, he got a real sense of _floating_ , not merely being taller than average but being generally up in the air. And still, he had no fear.

“This is incredible,” he told Tony. “It’s like—”

“Just you wait. All right, I think we’re mission a-go. One-thousand-feet, ten-second-launch-period, let’s have some fun. Bon voyage. In ten-nine-eight-seven-six. . . .” Looking upward at the sky, Steve thought, _This is its own kind of crazy_ , and then Tony finished, “three-two-one, _go_ ,” the power in his heels increased from a constant, gentle thrust to elephantine propulsion, rocketing him off the platform. 

He shouted briefly in uncontained surprise, but any residual fear quickly transmuted into wonder as he shot above the cityscape, Tony commentating, “God, it’s good to be back. Here I thought this was bullshit. What a view.” Boosting upward, they stabilized gently at 1,000 feet.

“Congratulations, Cap. Welcome to the jetpack club.”

Buoyant, mesmerized by the view, Steve floated, the suit effortlessly holding its own. Tony didn’t let him linger long, adding, “Now, let’s join the mile-high club.”

Looking up again, Steve said, “How many miles are up there?”

“Sixty-two. Give or take.”

It seemed incredibly easy. “How high can you go?”

“Greedy. Uh . . . Hundred-and-twelve-thousand feet was the highwater mark, but we had multiple system—ahem. Tell you later. Eighty-K, no trouble. Ninety in a pinch but I wouldn’t stay there long. Air’s heavy downstairs, gets thinner up top, but temperature grades are _wild_ , really puts the pressure on the joints. Winds drop off, that’s a plus, you can go super- at sixty K.” Steve glanced at the altimeter in the corner of the screen: _3,250, 3,300, 3,350_. “Second thoughts? This was actually thirty percent of my max. first altitude.” 4,050. “No oxygen in the tanks then, but, as you have surely noticed—” On screen, an oxygen meter recorded twenty-one percent saturation and greenlights across the board: “First-class accommodations. You don’t know you’re in trouble ‘til you’re in deep. Don’t worry. Nothing crazy.”

Then, pointedly, he added, “Okay, maybe a little crazy,” and Steve flexed his fingers in the gloves as they shot upwards, the altimeter zinging clean past, five, six, seven-K, cutting through the current easily. It was a little jarring, to have no control over it, standing still while the suit took care of itself—and Tony directed the suit, announcing, “Gets a little breezy at fifteen- to twenty-, fair warning. Don’t freak out.”

Expecting the turbulence meant he only flinched instead of tried to cut loose when the suit hit the first invisible wall, not quite like a car crash but heavier than he expected, his senses playing against him. There was _nothing there_ , just wind, but the suit shifted, no longer broadsiding the current but slicing through it, and Tony said conversationally, “You wouldn’t _believe_ the turbulence in the Middle East. I don’t know what _Turkey_ is on, but it’s wicked. Think it’s the mountains. Godawful. Nothing but _mountains_ from Iran to Portugal. Ta-da,” he added, a touch anticlimactically. Steve noticed _30,000_ on the altimeter. “Cruising altitude. That was easy. How we doing?”

“God,” Steve said simply, unembellished but sincere, looking around—free-range of motion, at least, the suit spinning gently with the motion, hovering. Hovering in empty space. Wow.

“Yeah, He doesn’t log on too often, you’re stuck with me,” Tony quipped. He sipped on a drink, quietly enough he might not have been heard if Steve’s ears didn’t pick up on him swallowing after. “All right, let’s get this show on the road,” he added, and the suit automatically shifted, not flopping but rolling forward and kicking off, a horizontal axis promptly tallying the distance in miles. “Still good?”

Steve was silent for too long, prompting a second: “Still good?”

Looking down at the world, black and far below, utterly solo in space, Steve said nothing at all, balanced in space. He didn’t even need to hold his breath up here. 

_I love being up in the air. I dream about it. In my mind, I never come down. My ground level is ten thousand feet. My altimeter is never right, because I can’t live up there, but I do. And yet, I’m scared shitless of what’s beyond. I never go beyond, but I never come down. You know what that’s like? To be scared shitless of the thing you need to breathe?_

_I do, Tony._ Rolling over so he could look at the liquid blackness above him, the _stars_ interrupting the night, he thought, _I really do._ Then, reaching out for a voice: _Ma? I found home. I found it_.

The night was silent. He floated on his back, barely aware of the distance, looking up at the stars ‘til they all dimmed out, leaving only darkness behind.

. o .

“Approaching destination in twelve minutes. Prepare for landing,” Jarvis informed calmly.

Steve blinked slowly awake. The first thing he noticed was the cool air, piped into the suit, doubtless to rouse him as Jarvis informed, what seemed like mere moments later, “Approaching destination in eleven minutes. Prepare for landing.” 

The second thing he saw was the altimeter: just under 11,000 feet. Somehow, they’d lost more than half their altitude without him even noticing, but even as Steve watched the number descend, it wasn’t like falling. It was, once again, like floating, drifting along a riverbed. He bellied down, and while he could watch the landscape grow imperceptibly nearer, the panic ringing gong-like in his chest refused to escalate with Jarvis informing a third time: “Approaching destination in ten minutes. Prepare for landing.”

It was nearly daybreak, here. He had no idea what time it was back home, or how long he’d been flying. All he knew exactly was that he felt rested, and he trusted Tony and Iron Man and Jarvis by extension of it all. And, push-come-to-shove, he knew he’d survived a crash once, with no armor between him and the wheel. At least this time, if he struck earth, he’d had two hundred pounds of bulletproof metal to cushion the impact.

By four minutes out, he could see their destination, and Jarvis did something very strange—rather than gently approaching, the suit swooped downward suddenly, losing two thousand vertical feet in less than ten seconds, a belly-down roll and dive that caught him off-guard. But the armor took the feeling of out-of-control momentum—he felt like a seal cutting through water, and was glad to be less than a thousand feet off the ground when they drifted the rest of the way to the drive, landing with an emphatic _thump_.

 _Touchdown_ , he thought, breathing a little too fast until the suit opened. Backing out of it, he neglected the slight drop, sprawled on his ass, and had the privilege of Jarvis rebuking very dryly a moment later: “Please watch your step.”

“Thanks, buddy,” he huffed. Shivering like a weasel pulled from its lair at the comparatively warm California air—he appreciated that he didn’t wake up to a nosedive but _must_ cold be the preferred wakeup strategy?—he pushed himself to his feet, looked at the suit, and asked, “What do I do with—?”

In response, the suit closed up, looking like Iron Man proper, and looked at him, announcing in Jarvis’ tone, “I will store and charge the suit.”

“Kind of you.” Holding out a hand, Steve watched the suit look down at it, telling him, “Haven’t really been properly introduced yet, but—thanks for the assist.”

Surprisingly slow to react, Jarvis reached out, gripped his hand with bruising strength, shook it mechanically up and down twice, then said crisply, “It is my pleasure, Captain.” He seemed very pleased with himself, and Steve made a point of not shaking the blood back into his hand when he released it a moment later, out of politeness. Probably didn’t know the suit’s strength.

It was a surprisingly potent reminder of just how _powerful_ Iron Man really was—and Tony even asked, “Oh, geez, did it jam?” the moment he saw Steve’s bluing hand, taking it carefully in both his own and looking at it like he could figure out the suit’s failure by examining it that way. “God _dammit_ , I had the emergency release down to a _tee_ —”

“Wasn’t the suit,” Steve said, which made him squint very dubiously, looking more ruffled than usual and very skeptical, sprawled on the couch, a strange headpiece on the table nearby. “What’s that?”

“Hm?” Still trying to read the lie in Steve’s palm, Tony flicked his gaze over to the headpiece, then said, “Remote operator. Kind of limpdick, honestly, I’d _kill_ to be up there, but—next best thing.” Then, pressing his own palm against Steve’s thoughtfully—Steve didn’t wince, even though it pushed against the darkening bruises—he sighed, “Did you _grab_ it? I swear, I adjusted the grip strength. Jesus. Better you than me—I’m sorry, better _nobody_ than—” He made a small, startled noise when Steve curved his arms around him, hugging him, asking warily, “This isn’t quid pro quo, is it? Not all men of steel here—”

Steve buried his face in his hair. Tentatively, Tony anchored his arms around Steve’s waist, leaning up against him. “This is nice,” he muffled against Steve’s belly.

“Missed you, too,” Steve said honestly, resting his cheek against the top of Tony’s head.

. o .

Tony said, “God, I—I _itch_. In my own skin. I miss. . . .” Longingly, he ran a hand over the belly of the suit. “This is fucking bullshit,” he said, without heat, covering his mouth and coughing painfully. His oxygen levels were as good as they could be, and the worst was over, but the damn cough lingered, and so long as it did, he couldn’t fly.

Steve thought about being cut off from his place of peace and ached for him. He swam, and Tony watched, more curious than afraid, asking, “How long can you hold your breath?”

He said, “I don’t know,” and he meant it. He’d never tried to simply hold it forever. That wasn’t the point.

He ducked under, timed it out at nine minutes, and resurfaced with a burn in his lungs and black dots in his eyes. He meant to tell Tony, _Longer than that_ , but Tony was gone. He looked around for him, called his name, and finally got out and searched.

Deep in his lab, huddled on a chair with his back to Steve, Tony said, “I’d say it’d be nice if I had your endurance, but I’d be lying.”

Entering the room, Steve leaned against a counter, far away, keeping his distance. Tony went on: “Most people can hold their breath for less than two minutes, you know. Thirty seconds is the comfortable average. You hold someone down for thirty seconds or more, they’re going to . . . .” His throat clicked when he swallowed.

Carefully approaching him, Steve knelt, resting both hands on Tony’s knees. Tony’s eyes were red, but there were no tears. The raw agitation was like a burn, an open wound that didn’t heal. 

“Honestly, you hold people down for ten seconds, they’re going to fight you.” He stopped, swallowed. It triggered a coughing fit, arm held to his mouth while Steve waited, patient on the concrete floor. “I never liked those games. As a kid, or an adult. Thought it was a fucking stupid way to die, holding someone underwater—” He made a thin, frustrated noise, one hand gripping his shirt by the throat. “Pulling wings off butterflies, what the fuck is _wrong_ with people,” he rasped. “Makes you think it’s _fun_ to torture an animal.”

He slid out of his chair, crashing bruisingly to his knees, and buried himself in Steve’s arms, heedless that he was still slightly damp, despite his best efforts to towel off and put a shirt on. “Catch you off-guard, so you’re not ready for it, and you might suck in water on the first breath, and you just—you know how much it _burns_ in your nose? How it reverses the whole—you’re trying to vomit water _in the water_.” He shook. Steve gripped him tightly.

He did know. He did know.

“And they haul you out and you think, _Thank God it’s over_ , and then they fucking—” He squeezed Steve’s shirt so tightly it would have ripped, had it not been a higher quality. “Over and over and over, and you—should’ve goddamn passed out, then they’d stop, that how it works? But they only hold you—hold you down, maybe ten seconds, maybe thirty, maybe a _minute_ , so you never even come close, you’re _awake_ , you’re _there_ , and you can hear them laughing, because they always fucking _laugh_.”

He drew in a gasp that was almost a sob. Steve clung to him. _Not you. Not you_ , he thought. But it was written in every pained, trembling line of his vertebrae, more pronounced—he’d lost weight, lost _will_ , lost something in his sickness—and there was a war inside him, too. It had extracted an unimaginable toll.

“I know I’m . . . I’m _lucky_. They wanted me. They _kept_ me. Fed and watered—” He strangled on the word. Steve shifted, sitting properly, hauling him into his lap, curling over him as he huddled in his arms. “Could’ve just . . . torn off my fingernails and watched it wreck my mind. S’why some’a the other guys were screaming, you know. Every night, they’d tear off another fingernail, or pull out another molar, or they’d, they’d break their fingers.” He pressed against Steve’s shirt, the arc reactor digging in a little, and Steve thought, _Oh, Tony._

God, to be that afraid. To hear the sounds of that fear, night-after-night. “And every day, you wonder, _are they gonna find out?_ Because _that’s_ when—God, what if they pulled out my _tongue_? How do you _begin_ to fucking deal with that?” He shook so hard he coughed again, and Steve hushed softly:

“Shh. Tony. I’m here.”

“They’d throw—throw buckets at you, God knows what was in them, and you’d get so sick you couldn’t work but _I can’t lose my tongue, Steve_. They never _needed_ to make good because I could _hear_ them making good.” He gagged a little, pressing his closed mouth against Steve’s shoulder and moaning. Steve rubbed his back.

He said aloud, softly but sincerely: “I’m so sorry, Tony.”

Tony didn’t move, didn’t speak, just let out another sad noise, half-cry, half-anguished sob, muffled, dissolved. Holding him tightly and close, Steve shushed him, insisting, “I’m here.”

“I killed them.” Tony’s voice was dead as he spoke again, pulling back and looking Steve in the eye and insisting wearily, “I killed them. But there were more. It never ends.” 

It was plain as day in his eyes, that same haunted, beleaguered look of war: _my gun’s out of ammo. And the enemy is still pouring in_. Men like him would throw down their empty weapons and desert, run screaming into the night, only to die anyway.

Steve promised, “You made it here, Tony.” It wasn’t the hopeful news he wanted, nor the beautiful lie he maybe needed— _it’s all over_. 

But it was real. And Tony looked at him, saw the truth and the promise of it, and sank against him, hopelessly weary but hopeful about something.

Holding onto him, Steve thought quietly, to himself: _I know. I know._

And he did.

. o .

_One week later_.

“You’re brave,” Steve told Tony, holding him, standing in the water with him, just up to his own collarbones. “You’re brave.”

Tony huffed out a breath, clinging to him, arms around his neck, legs around his waist. His teeth chattered a little, even though the pool was warm and the sunshine was warmer still, as he replied, “Braver when I’m w-with you.”

Pressing his cheek against Tony’s, Steve stood patiently in the water, not moving an inch, genuinely humbled and so goddamn proud of him. He wished he had more words, better words, to describe how miraculous it was. He wondered, briefly, if anyone had ever been inspired by him, but he thought, _I’m not inspiring; I’m healing_.

And that was what Tony was doing, he realized. He slowly loosened one hand on his back, almost imperceptibly lowering it to his own side. Tony still hung onto him, but he didn’t snap at him not to let go, so he did the same with his other arm, so that only Tony’s arms kept them tethered.

He asked, “Okay?”

Tony nodded once, still a little jerky but his breathing far from panicky. Fast—but not broken. Steve worried briefly about setting him off, but he’d been doing better with coughing, his whole manner returned virtually to normal. _Let him go_ , a voice inside him reminded. He drifted slowly backwards, approaching the deep end of the pool. Tony’s grip tightened, but he didn’t protest the movement, didn’t say a word until, all at once, Steve’s feet no longer reached bottom. He treaded out a little farther, and Tony held on. Even Tony seemed surprised, his breathing deepening, going almost quiet as he realized they had made it and they were— _okay_.

“Baby steps,” Steve told him, as Tony looked around in a mixture of wonder and suppressed terror, a shell-shocked soldier returning to the field for the first time. His own feet kicked absentmindedly, creating a current that Steve could feel, turbulence. Tony was completely mute, the only sound his noisy breathing.

Steve asked, “You okay?”

Tony just nodded, a little unsteadily but affirmation, regardless. “Perfect,” he quipped, a joke, but Steve pecked his cheek in affectionate agreement, even though Tony made a slightly strangled _don’t let go of the wheel_ noise, tightening his grip on Steve’s neck.

. o .

Steve knew he was broken. His senses were too loud. His book of knowledge was seventy years out of date. His memories were a minefield, full of land he dared not tread over.

Yet being with Tony, as neurotic and skeptical and spitfire as he was, made him think that maybe _broken_ wasn’t the right word. Maybe _transformed_ was.

 _No one walks through a crucible unscathed_ , a voice that sounded like his Ma’s said to him. _A field that catches fire is never the same field. But it still grows, in time._

He wasn’t the untampered glass he had been before the War, before the serum, before the ice. He wasn’t perfect, even then. But he was . . . _less_ transformed. And there were days when he longed to be that way, again, when he dove underwater not to find death but to find his old life again.

But when he emerged and found his new life, unsound and unsettled and perhaps insane as it was, he felt only gratitude that he got to experience it. That he got to experience the future alongside the likes of Tony Stark, who was shattered and somehow even more beautiful for it, pulled in every direction—Avenger, Iron Man, Stark Industries CEO, human-person with human-needs—and somehow still the most full-of-light person Steve had ever met.

Lounging on Iron Man’s front, basking under the stars, Steve mused aloud, “I don’t feel broken, anymore.”

Lounging underneath him, sharing an invisible hammock, Iron Man replied with Tony Stark’s unforgettable voice, “Damn shame, really. Helps my ego when there’s other imperfect people out there.” But he brought a heavy metal hand up to cover the back of Steve’s head, so gentle with it. “But I suppose I’ll just have to learn to live with the disappointment. God,” he sighed. “That’s crushing. My boyfriend is without flaw. How will I live?”

“I’m sure we’ll find a way,” Steve assured.

“Ever the optimist.” Tony squeezed the back of his neck gently. “Let the record show—I knew it all along.”

Aching with fondness, Steve rested his cheek on Iron Man’s shoulder and agreed, “I know you did. Just—took me a while. To catch up.”

“S’fine. I can wait.” Said so plainly, so unpresumptuously, the simple affirmation moved Steve unexpectedly. “Steve?”

“Mm-hm?”

“I would do _anything_ to take away the pain.”

“I know.” After a short beat, he said: “Me, too.” And he didn’t mean his own.

. o .

The ocean was salty and cooler than any pool. Steve still approached it, stepping into it and letting it wash over his feet.

Tony mused, “You’re out of your mind.”

There would be no peace under the crashing waves, no pseudo-silence. But it was—real. Natural. _Alive_.

A landscape he did not voluntarily go to, yet profoundly, uncapturably beautiful.

“Don’t go too far,” Tony quipped, standing well ashore. Someday, Steve mused, he might join him.

Steve walked into the waves, ankle-deep, calf-deep. Nothing bad happened to him. He stood knee-deep for quite some time.

He ventured out to the waist and lingered, aware that the current would not sweep him out even to the neck but—satisfied. Somehow.

Turning back, he saw Tony standing on shore, sunglasses hiding his eyes but hands on his hips, watching with abundant curiosity and no small amount of caution.

“Water’s not bad,” he told Tony. It warmed up quickly, and—oh, to hell with it.

He threw himself under the next wave, expecting the arctic chill to seep into his lungs, and emerged, dripping wet and gasping a little, but alive, alive. He still loped for shore and shook off briefly, but—“Wow,” he said aloud.

A towel flopped over his head. “Out of your _mind_ ,” Tony replied, but he sounded more fond than exasperated. “I do mean that.”

“Wow,” Steve repeated, impressed, exhilarated.

Life could go on.

It would take an age—far longer than he or Tony would ever like—but life _could_ go on.

Toweling off, he made sure he wasn’t dripping before putting the towel over his shoulder and his arm around Tony’s waist, who still grumbled wordlessly in complaint about his shirt getting wet. It was the only layer between the metal heart in his chest and the ocean beyond—he had a special tape-like plastic that he put over it when he wanted to fully submerge, but for such casual occasions, he roughed it, took chances. He was brave. Endlessly brave.

Maybe Steve was simply a fool, but he was a happy fool, indeed. And that—that was a life he could live.

A happy sort of madness. Full of aliens, and futuristic baubles, and Tony Stark’s latest questionable idea, and a butler who seemed to live entirely in the walls, and nightmares of the arctic, and peace among the stars.

One thing was for certain: a guy could get used to it.


End file.
